AUNTIE DRU by Fojiao2
by Babyverse Krewe
Summary: AU--Pride & Scourge. As Connor grew up in the Hyperion and at school, Drusilla has had an effect upon his life. These are small peeks at various important discussions between Connor and his Auntie Dru.
1. First Month, Age Three, Age Five, & Age ...

**AUNTIE DRU**

**by Fojiao2 (Kevin A. Poston)**

**A tale about Connor from the Babyverse**

**DISCLAIMER: None of the characters used here belong to me; most of them belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Baby, The Pride, Jean Claude, René, and Claudia belong to Ebony Silvers. I profit from none of this.**

**RATING: R**

**SPOILERS: "Highway to Hell," "Slept So Long Without You," "Bed of Roses."**

**DEDICATION: For Ebony, who encouraged me in the writing of this.**

**FIRST NIGHT HOME**

          He spoke with her before he learned to talk. It was true, though he never told anyone. And of course, she already knew.

          When Connor was born he knew the language all infants know: the colors he had seen in the womb. Thus he knew the blooms of pink and white, the striations of blood-red and vanilla, and the solidity of his own fingers floating in front of his face. And like every child, his mind cried out with these images, for they were the only communication he knew. The screaming and crying that he accomplished were accidental, just the expelling of emotion through this new medium of air. His true language was the swirl of color within his memory, cast out by his mind.

          And she heard him. She came to his crib and looked down, brilliant eyes flashing from a milk-pale face, framed by dark brown tresses. He broadcast a blossoming off-white question toward her, and amazingly, she returned it with a red-pale-stripe-black answer, a complex cipher that he couldn't quite place. Still, it intrigued him enough that he spent time considering it, not even knowing how advanced it was for his brain to be considering anything. But he knew the feel of her mind touching his now. And it stopped him from crying. Soon enough, a broadcast of imagery from his mind could be answered by her from another room, from several floors below, and even from elsewhere in the city. After more months of development, he found that the original message she had sent him had been her name. And when he connected this to the complex interworking of his tongue and lips and breath, he made a word of it.

          Thus, to Angel's burning jealous regret, Connor's first word was: "Dru."

**AGE THREE**

          Connor was playing alone in his room and he loved it. He was so rarely left alone in this crowded household that it was restful being free of the caring, concerned, pressuring gazes of his extended family. The only eyes that didn't bother him were those of his Auntie Dru, because she never seemed to look at him so much as through him. She could be in the same room with him and never look in his direction, but he knew that she was paying careful attention to everything he did. Unlike his father, who looked for a new reason to worry every time Connor stood up, Auntie Dru seemed to trust his movements and only interfered when he might hurt himself. Funnily enough, she was always there just in time to rescue him, as if she knew what would happen before it did.

          Which was why he paid attention when she ran into his room. A cut ran from the edge of her mouth to her hairline but it was already healing. She was wide-eyed and moving faster than he'd ever seen, reeling around the room in which he was the center. "Where is it, where is it?" she said to herself, a fist beating against her hip as she strode in circles in her long skirt. Connor suddenly made a connection in his head: Auntie Dru was THE only woman he knew who wore skirts. He wondered why.

          He wasn't worried about her behavior. He often saw her mumbling to herself and wandering the halls of the hotel. But she was usually followed by . . . Connor spun his head to the doorway and saw what he expected: Wesley, leaning against the frame of the door, watching his wife with concern. He never called the man "Uncle Wes"—Da tended to get angry when he did so. Now the boy grew apprehensive for the first time, because Wesley didn't look good. He was bleeding from cuts on his face and neck, but because he was human they were running freely. Plus, there were black smudges on his face, and his leather coat was still smoking slightly. Obviously there was a fight going on somewhere in the hotel or nearby—another fact of life about growing up in the Hyperion—and Connor was happy that Dru and Wes were here to watch him instead of Auntie Fred, like usual. Fred was nice, but she never left him alone.

          "Love," Wesley said, "what are you looking for? The crisis is over; Angel's led it away from the hotel."

          Drusilla spun around, still wild-eyed. She drifted forward and picked up Connor with one hand, then tossed him into Wesley's surprised arms. Wesley took the boy and held him uncomfortably, not used to holding children at all. Especially this one. It had been three years since Wesley's attempted theft of the child, and though everyone in the family understood that he'd been doing it for the good of all, and that mistakes had been made on both sides regarding the incident . . . some things could never be forgotten or completely forgiven. Thus while Wesley was not forbidden to see Connor, he was never asked to watch the boy, he had not yet been invited to one of the elaborate birthday parties Angel Investigations threw for the toddler, and by consequence almost never got to hold Angel's child. At this moment they were closer to each other than they'd been in a year.

          For his part, Connor was happy. He'd gotten to fly just a bit—something he got to do only when his Da was out of the room and an adult was willing to throw him into the air. Then he'd landed in the warm, smoky arms of Wesley. There were some interesting smells to discover here, and the boy buried his face in the leather jacket to gather this essence of smoke and adventure that the adults had just left. He wrapped his thin arms around Wesley's left bicep, and only then did Wes realize that he had to make the boy a seat with his forearms. He brought them up to his chest, hands clasped together, and the little boy in his arms got comfortable. Connor looked up at Wesley and smiled, snuggling into his chest. Wesley looked down at the boy and stared, as if an alien had latched itself onto his torso—and he was surprised to find how comfortable it was.

          "Ah-ha!" Dru said, and dove into the playroom's closet. She came out with a small wooden marionette and rushed back to the door. "We have to go," she told Wesley brusquely, shoving him away from the door and pushing him down the hallway. 

          Wes found his attention caught between the two, wanting to keep eye contact with Connor but also wanting to protest to Dru. "Wait, wait!" he squawked. "What's the rush, princess?" He kept trying to look over his shoulder to catch her eye, but she doggedly pushed him forward with her superior strength and herded him toward the open part of the floor looking down into the lobby. When there she stopped them all abruptly.

          He stared down at the floor more than two stories below, already knowing what was coming though she'd told him nothing. "Darling, we can't even take the stairs?" he asked.

          "No time," Dru answered, picking him up like a child and making sure that the child was secure in his place on Wesley's chest. She looked into Connor's wide and wondering eyes and said, "Hold on tight."

          Connor gripped Wesley tightly and squeezed his eyes shut. Thus he felt, rather than saw, Drusilla climb up onto the railing and leap. They were in freefall for what felt like minutes, then the slam of Drusilla's boots hitting the lobby's stone floor was simultaneous with each one receiving all of their weight back in less than a second. But Connor had held on, as had Wesley, and both males opened their eyes to see the welcoming brightness of Dru's smile. She was already walking them across the lobby to the office. "We're safe now," she said, setting Wesley onto his own feet when they were behind the check-in counter.

          "Safe from what?" Wesley asked. 

          And that was the cue. Both adult heads spun around at the sound of the great beast's passage through the air, then the explosion of its impact. The dragon was a hundred feet long from nose to tail-end, and Wes and Dru had helped combat it less than an hour earlier. But then Angel had been successful in luring it away from the hotel and gotten it drunk enough on soma weed that the thing had been helpless. The couple had stayed behind to keep an eye on Connor—and Dru had been doing just that from downstairs, keeping her mind open to the boy, when she had suddenly bolted upstairs and Wes had followed her.

          Now he knew why. Somehow the dragon had returned and been killed, and its fatal trajectory had put it directly over the northern wing of the Hyperion. Its corpse  destroyed a large section of three floors, and its smoking, stinking head now lay upside-down in the hotel's lobby, dead eyes staring at the front door. Wes looked up the long, long armored neck of the beast and saw where the center of its body lay: directly where Connor's play-room had been.

          The three-year-old Connor climbed onto a chair and made his way to the countertop to see what all the noise had been about. He was impressed by the dragon's size more than its existence: he'd known his father's game-face from the day of his birth, after all. His eyes also drifted up the length of the dragon's neck and came to the same conclusion Wesley had. But gratitude wasn't his first feeling.

          "My toys!" the boy gasped. "All my toys were there! And they're gone! They're gone!" Tears started to slip down his face.

          "Which is why," Drusilla said, "I got your favorite for you." She leaned next to the boy and brought the little wooden marionette up to his face.

          Connor stared and his face broke into a huge smile. "Willy!" he said, and clutched the toy to him.

          Wesley tore his eyes from the dragon to witness the tiny scene. He stepped forward and brought his wife into a tight embrace, silently thanking her for saving his life as well as Connor's. He had, after all, been seated in the lobby exactly where the dragon's steaming head now lay. He'd been her consort for two years and she his wife for just over a year, and every day he discovered new and wonderful depths to her. "An unfortunate choice of names for that toy," he observed, speaking into her ear.

          She giggled back at him. "He won't find out for some time, and then he'll be too old to care."

          Wesley's eyebrows raised and he drew back to look at her. "You mean—?"

          Dru nodded seriously. "I'm afraid our worst fears will be realized."

          Wes looked with caring and a trace of pity at the little boy playing on the countertop with his wooden man. "So he'll grow up as an American." He sighed deeply and scooped up the boy, who giggled and wriggled but let himself be held by Wes. They were growing increasingly comfortable with each other.

          Then Angel burst through the doors of the lobby, leaping the steps and landing within a foot of the dragon's head. He didn't cast a glance toward the check-in counter, where Wes, Connor, and Dru watched him with curiosity. Angel's gaze went directly toward the second-floor location of his son's play-room, and saw that the dragon's chest was where the room used to be. He staggered and fell to his knees, his hand covering his gaping mouth, seemingly keeping his scream within him. The strength of his face collapsed, as did his shoulders, and he started to fall into himself.

          "Angel," said a voice to his left, and he looked up to see Wesley approaching with Connor in his arms. "Your son's fine," the ex-Watcher said.

          Angel was instantly up and pulling Connor into his embrace, holding him tightly to his chest despite the young boy's protests and wriggling. He never did like it when his father was so openly affectionate, but Angel barely heard him. He was just so grateful to see his boy alive. "Thank you, Wes," he said, pulling the human forward, gripping him by the back of the neck and letting his tears and expressive eyes say more than he ever could. "Thank you."

          In the office, Drusilla leaned across the counter and looked at the scene with satisfaction. It was just as she had seen, and she knew that from this day forward her husband would be more accepted, more welcome in affairs having to do with Connor, and thus closer to the rest of the family. And the boy would need Wesley as well, and not just for the ex-Watcher's expertise with a knife. She smiled to herself as she considered it all: she had taken a day of tragedy and turned it into one of bonding and joy. For decade upon decade she had turned days of simple joy into blood-drenched nightmares, painting the world in red and stilling it like a demon's photograph. Because the world needed stilling. But Dru found that creating happiness was much more challenging and didn't last as long, and she loved a challenge. Why, there were all sorts of deaths she could avert if she could just bring herself to care. She'd have to discuss the matter later with Wesley.

**AGE FIVE**

          Connor stood straight, his hands clasped behind him. "Am I evil?" he asked.

          Angel spun around, looking down at the boy in horror. "Of course not!" he cried. "You're just a boy. But it's still no excuse. You have to stop this . . . lying, Connor. It's not evil, but it's not good, either."

          "I didn't hurt anybody," Connor said.

          "That doesn't matter!" Angel replied. "You can't tell us you'll be in your room when you're actually playing outside. We have to know where you are—life is too dangerous here for you to pull those stunts, son. Remember the—"

          "The dragon," Connor finished, rolling his eyes. "How could I ever forget?"

          Angel crossed his arms and scowled down at the boy. "Levity. Nice. It's no secret that you're smart, and more developed than most boys your age. And because of that, we thought you were big enough to be trusted. But maybe we were premature. Maybe you have to be watched twenty-four hours a day. Maybe I'll talk to Dawn about taking time off from her classes and spending the afternoons with you." This was his trump card, he knew. Dawn was an evil genius as a babysitter, knowing every dirty trick in the book and always five steps ahead of the worst mischief Connor could think up. She was the boy's arch-enemy, and gloated over that fact.

          Connor looked outraged, then his face scrunched up, and he tried to keep the whine out of his voice as he said, "But I don't get it! You've told me to lie!"

          "What?!"

          The little boy began to pace, in a move everyone recognized as stolen from Uncle Spike. "I have to say you're human! I can't tell anyone you're 250! I can't mention vampires or witches or demons or anything! I can't say Dru is cra—" Connor slapped his hands over his mouth and looked with wide-eyed fear at his father.

          The problem with having a vampire as a father was that his face never went red or pale with fury—one had to watch his eyes at all times. And what Connor now saw was a furious call to destruction, a craziness that the boy never thought to see in his overprotective father's eyes. Maybe he'd finally done it, taken that one step too far and brought out The Boogeyman: Angelus.

          "Can't say Dru is what?" came a smooth female voice from the doorway. "Crazy?"

          Angel spun around, giving a warning growl, clearly wanting to be alone with his son. Drusilla walked forward chuckling, waving a dismissive hand at Angel's threatening posture. "Really, Sire—has that EVER worked on me?" She swept past him and stopped by Connor, kneeling beside him so she could look him directly in the eye.

          In great contrast to his father, Auntie Dru's eyes were full of humor and caring. "I am crazy, you know," she told Connor. "I'm better than I was, but still—my fire burns on the plains but has not yet reached the forest."

          Behind her, Angel shook his head, not knowing what the hell she was talking about. Still, her interruption had fizzled out his anger, and he was ready to see how she would handle her little "brother."

          "But you have a much bigger question in your head," Dru continued. "You want to know: 'What is truth?'"

          Connor stared back at her. "I— I guess I do."

          Her eyes flashed and Connor felt the familiar touch of her mind linked to his. Her hand was stretched forward, two fingers drifting across his forehead, so that even Angel knew she was digging into Connor's brain. When she next spoke, her mouth wasn't moving. "The truth is that it's all true."

          "Huh?" Connor's question was also in the realm of his own mind.

          "See what I see," she ordered him. "Be in me." Drusilla waved a hand and time stopped in the room for everyone but them, Angel frozen as he rubbed his chin with suspicion, Cordelia stopped in her typing in the office outside. Everything was silent and still, except for him and the wide-eyed vampire smiling at him.

          "Take this second," she said. "Just this one second. And see what I see."

          Connor did that, looking around the room, noting that there were additions to what had been the office's bland décor, color and symbols and even words stamped on the background of what he considered reality. There were even other people standing frozen in the office, some in shadow and some transparent.

          "What is all this?" he asked.

          "It is what is always here," Dru answered, "but which no one else sees or hears. There are ghosts, too, but I won't show you those. I can see as many as sixteen levels of reality—and even I know that there are many that slip from my hands."

          A lot of letters were splayed across the window, keeping him from looking out. "What does that say?" he asked.

          Drusilla looked at the sentence_—"She just stood there watching," Fred continued. "She just stood there and laughed."_—and shook her head. "I won't tell you. Look around, find what you can read and understand."

          Connor followed orders and looked around him in wonder. "Footprints," he said, squatting next to them on the floor. When he touched them he got a sudden jolt of identification, a feeling of coldness wrapped in leather and filled with cigarette smoke. "Spike," he said, and then touched the high-heeled bootprint next it. This feeling knocked him to his knees, a heavy wave of love and anger and tenderness and bloodlust and much more, like watching 150 TV channels at once. "Baby," he breathed out, not understanding even a tenth of what he saw.

          Drusilla nodded. "They are strong," she said. "They haven't been in this room for years, but their touches stay here long after."

          "There are drawings on them," Connor said, pointing.

          Dru squatted next to him, looking at the prints with interest. "The symbol layer. I don't look at these as often," she said. "The world is sickly full of them. If I spent time on them I'd do nothing else." She pointed to Spike's bootprint. "Oh, how happy for my Spike. He's been to Hell, and now he'll see Heaven. He carries the mark of redemption and spreads it." She traced a finger over a complicated mark that ran the length of the print. "Poor boy. He should grab what happiness he can while he has it."

          "There's a skull on Baby's print," Connor observed.

          Dru smiled lazily as she looked it over. "I know," she said. "She'll die here. Upstairs, I should think. Then she'll become my sister. But it won't be what she dreamed—she should remember the Chinese man on the frontier."

          What Chinese man? Connor thought. Then he found something much more interesting: "Look. It's Da's footprint." As he reached for it, Dru caught his shoulder and pulled him back.

          "You shouldn't look there," Dru said. "You shouldn't know that. Come, I have other things for you to see." She stood the boy up and, taking his hand, drew him to another part of the office. By the desk a violent young man slouched against a wall. He wore denim from head to toe, ripped at the elbows and knees, and boots with steel tips. His arms were crossed, but it was clear that his hands were covered in blood. His hair was wild and he smirked as if he thought himself the only real person in the room. He wore warpaint. His gray eyes were cold and hard, their emptiness a sharp contrast to the fullness of Angel's eyes. With that note of how he recognized the man, Connor stumbled backward and stared at the ruffian.

          "That's me," he said. "Is that how I'll look when I'm grown?"

          Drusilla shook her head. "No, he's the other you. The one who would have been here already if you had been taken to Quartoth. His presence is strong through the hotel. The world screams at me that he should have been here, that things are too happy and quiet here since you were rescued." She chuckled. "But I met my Wesley because you were rescued. So I tell the voices to go hang themselves."

          Connor looked at the denim-clad warrior with fascination. He was so self-satisfied. He was so strong and independent. He was in so much pain. "What did I have to suffer to become him?" he said aloud.

          "More than you will here," Dru answered, "and isn't that enough?" She turned around and came face-to-face with the transparent figures who'd been standing there the whole time. She hissed and spit at their feet.

          Connor stepped around her and looked at the ghost of his father. Or not his father, specifically, but the transparent figure of his father. One who wore leather all over, and who had shaved his head and sported a goatee. Even behind his thin, expensive shades Connor recognized the smirk on the large man. He had a tattooed arm around another vampire's shoulders, a young and handsome man who was also smiling evilly. The younger man's teal eyes sparkled with mischief and murder, and it was clear that he was the larger vampire's plaything from the way their hips knocked together and how he had a hand tucked into the waist of the Irish vamp's pants. "Is this Angelus?"

          Dru nodded. "Bad, bad Daddy," she said. "Worse than most. It's a reality far from this one, where Angelus killed Spike and took his childer after driving them mad. This one, René, is his favorite, driven insane after Angelus killed Baby in front of him. I think she was pregnant at the time. It's a bad place and far from us, which is why it's fading." She stopped and glared at the frozen image. "But it's not gone yet."

          Connor spun away from these figures, feeling more disturbed the longer he watched them. Then he saw the person in the far corner, draped in shadow, like a black-light spotlight that hid them from the room's brightness. He stepped toward it and Drusilla was immediately behind him, a protective hand on his shoulder. "Who is that?" When Auntie Dru wouldn't answer, he continued forward with her still behind him. Connor recognized the person when he was one foot away from it.

          "Drusilla," he gasped, looking up at the carbon copy of his Auntie standing patiently in a well of shadow. He became truly unnerved when this figure moved, her eyes swiveling down to look at him. He retreated into his Auntie's skirt. "Is that you? Or another you, from another reality?"

          "Yes," Drusilla said, "but she is more here than anything else. She is who I could be, just a decision away."

          "Is she evil?"

          "No more than me," Dru said, and the twin in shadow smiled and nodded. "But she is alone." The shadow-twin lost her smile then.

          "Why are you showing me this?" Connor pleaded, holding onto Dru's skirt like a security blanket and wrapping himself in it. She drew him over to the office's couch and sat him down, finding a seat next to him. She pulled him onto her lap and held him in a comforting way that she almost never did. He had the bad feeling that maybe his real Auntie was now trapped in shadow and the one holding him was a new Drusilla.

          "I told you," Drusilla said. "The truth is that it's all true. Do you remember?"

          "Of course. You said that just before . . . this."

          "Well, it IS all true, Connor. Before you were born, I saw him," Dru said, pointing to the violent young man in denim. "And he was much more real to me than you were. I saw him in the lobby, and hallways, and the elevator. He was the Connor who was supposed to be here." She paused, waiting to see if there would be a reaction. "But then I saw you. A tiny boy in a play-room. A five-year-old sneaking out of a window. A ten-year-old making his own fireworks. A fifteen-year-old hiding with me and Cordelia in the vault downstairs. After you were born, that older-you started to fade. The boy who's seated with me became more real. And now here you are—the Connor who is supposed to be here."

          Connor stared up with wide eyes. "What does it all mean?"

          "It means that that older-you is as real as you are. Somewhere else, he exists. To you he's just a dream. To him, you're just a wisp of thought. He doesn't have a loving mommy and daddy—you do. But you're not more real than him. None of us are. I have to watch all of this, Connor, and I decide what's better or worse. But I don't decide what's more real."

          Drusilla was then silent for a long time, while Connor absorbed what he'd seen. Finally he broke the silence: "Is this what you wanted to teach me?"

          "It's what I hope you've learned," she answered. "Your world is what you make it. If you want it filled with lies and distrust, that's what you'll find. If you want it filled with courage and love, that's what you'll find." She brushed the hair away from his eyes and looked at him seriously. "Some lies you tell to help yourself, and some lies you tell to protect your family. I don't need to tell you which are good and which are bad, do I?"

          Staring into her eyes, Connor blinked. He'd actually heard her say that—for the first time in minutes her voice had actually crossed the air. And he found himself standing where he'd been before, Drusilla kneeling in front of him, two fingers touching his forehead. She drew away and stood, looking triumphantly at Angel, who was still watching both of them distrustfully. "I think I'm done here," she said.

          "That's it?" Angel said. "You look into his mind for one second and it's all settled?"

          "It depends," Dru answered, "on the right second." She started to leave, then cast a bright smile on her sire. She reached out and brushed a hand through his moussed locks. "I'm so glad you still have hair," she said, and left the office.

          Angel rolled his eyes and looked at his son. "Is it me, or is she getting crazier?"

          "Da!" Connor said. "Weren't you going to tell me that it's rude to call Auntie Dru crazy? Right before she came in?"

          "Um . . . " Angel frowned. "Yes. I was."

          "And I am sorry," Connor said, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry for lying to you and Ma also. I didn't want to scare you. Really."

          Angel sighed. "That's what you said the last time. How do I know you mean it?"

          Connor shrugged. "If you want trust you have to give trust."

          The vampire squinted at his son. "Wha?! Is that something Dru just told you? While you were doing that mind-meld thing?" Connor silently nodded. "Hmm. Maybe she's not such a bad influence on you after all."

**AGE TEN**

          "There's no such thing as vampires," Connor said.

          Robbie De Beers rolled his eyes. "Well of course not!" he said, exasperated. "But can't you imagine? I mean, here we are, all alone. No bodyguards, no chauffers, no nannies. Just us under this light and all that blackness out there. And what could come out of that night air? Ghouls? Vampires? Don't you feel the least bit helpless?"

          Li Peng shook his head. "That's foolishness," he stated. "There's nothing there at night that isn't also there in the day."

          "Not necessarily," Arnie Lansky said, "and I'm not talking screech owls. My parents had a séance at their last dinner party, and I watched from the stairs. I actually saw a silver candlestick float through the air. It was the freakiest thing. I'm telling you, there's a whole hidden world of the occult that we never see."

          Now Connor rolled his own eyes. The occult—these spoiled rich boys had no idea what they were talking about. The Palmerston Academy was the finest private school in L.A., attracting the sons of ambassadors, billionaires, presidents, and sheiks, but the boys who attended had little to no idea what the real world was like. Connor's classmates were so insulated by wealth and privilege that they only knew what they read in books. They were all two years older than him—he'd tested to get into their grade—but sometimes he felt twice as mature as these morons.

          "I'd be prepared, that's all I'm saying," Robbie De Beers continued. "I've been studying this stuff. If a vampire came at us I'd know what to do: a stake through the heart or cut off its head."

          "Yeah, like you carry around stakes," Arnie Lansky said. He removed from his pocket a silver lighter, THE lighter he'd boasted to everyone he'd stolen off his chauffer. He produced a small flame and said, "Fire is a much more sure way to deal with vampires. Or so I'm told."

          "Oh, like you know anything," Connor sneered, then regretted that he'd let it slip out.

          The three boys looked at him strangely. Baiting each other was their favorite game, and Connor almost never rose to the challenge, seeing as he was the baby of the group. But now they seemed to have found something that would tweak him. Getting a handle on a little genius was always useful. "And what do you know?" Li Peng asked, his calm eyes hiding a nature that was more dangerous than his two louder companions.

          Every instinct told Connor to back down, to admit ignorance and give them the field. Common sense told him to stay quiet and to stop seeing these boys so much, no matter how popular they were around the school. But the natural boasting nature that he took from his hero, Uncle Spike, won out. "Fire is a stupid way to fight vampires," he said clearly. "They start to flail and run around when they're lit up. It's all too likely that they'll catch you on fire, as well as the room you're in if you're attacking them inside. As for cutting off the head—if you can't even lift an axe, Robbie, you don't have any hope of doing that. A stake is good, but that kind of close-up work is too dangerous for most people. Best to try a long stick with sharp ends, like a javelin. It gives you distance, and it's easier to aim for the heart." He suddenly looked down and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Or so I'm told," he offered.

          The three schoolboys stood blinking at him. They had never heard the innocent little Connor say anything like that before. "And how the hell would you know?" Robbie asked.

          "Well, I— I was thinking about it. I mean, you guys talk about vampires and occult stuff all the time. So I modeled the idea of killing a vampire," Connor said.

          "Modeled," Arnie repeated, more than a hint of disgust in his voice. The three older boys hated that particular educational technique, the modeling of an idea via the latest in computer logic programs, mainly because none of them had an aptitude for it. And it was no secret that Connor was the school genius when it came to computer modeling. They also knew that he'd somehow arranged to have the Hacker Goddess (West Coast), Willow Rosenberg, give a lecture on computer security for all programming students. He was a rising star in the community of the rich and famous, and if he had the brains to realize it he'd have dumped these three losers who were obviously using him and started his own clique within the school. But they had their hooks in him deep enough to make sure he thought himself lucky that they gave him their attention. They'd keep him off-balance and useful until they graduated or got arrested, whichever came first.

          They'd rather discuss anything than computer modeling. And Connor patted himself on the back for adroitly changing the subject. (And yes, he was the kind of boy who used the word 'adroitly.')

          "Why the hell are we out here, anyway?" Robbie groused. "So Connor's aunt can drive us to the airport? Y'know, my father could have sent a limo. For each of us, even."

          Peng dug an elbow into Robbie's side. "Dude. Have you SEEN Auntie Dru?"

          "Uh, no."

          Peng and Arnie shared a knowing smile. "It'll be worth it."

          Connor looked down and scuffed his shoe on the pavement on which they stood. Talk that even approached sex tended to embarrass him; talk that involved sex and his relatives gave him major wiggins. God, if these guys only knew! Some of the things he'd seen Spike and Baby do on the hotel stairs, of all places! Sometimes the Hyperion could be a dangerous place to walk for reasons having nothing to do with demons. And speaking of that—

          "Hey," Robbie said. "Did you see Mrs. Roxton when she came to get Connor back in August?"

          Arnie leaned forward. "No, I missed it. But I've heard stories."

          "Hey, I was in that class, man!" Robbie boasted. "Jefferson was going on and on about binominals—"

          "Binomials," Connor supplied.

          "Whatever," Robbie growled. "Anyway, it's one really boring lecture. I'm just about to fall asleep when there's this knock on the door. Before Jefferson can answer it this woman walks in. She's older, y'know, you can tell, like as old as my dad's first wife—but MAN! There wasn't a thing dropping on her, y'know? Bazooms out to here! And she's in this silver low-cut top and this short-short black skirt that just barely covers her ass, with these black nylons—and hey, get this—" He held out his hands for dramatic effect, but he obviously had Arnie enthralled— "You . . . could . . . see . . . the garter straps!"

          "Oh!" Arnie cried, hand over heart, falling back in a mock-swoon, grinning.

          Wearing the same feral grin, Peng asked, "Hey Connor, Dru's not as old as Mrs. Roxton, is she?"

          How to answer that? 'Nah, guys, Dru's got a hundred years on Baby, 'course she's been dead that whole time, so it's kinda cheating.' "Uh, no. Baby married into the family, while Dru's my real aunt."

          "Baby?!"

          Connor blinked. Should he not have said that? "Yeah. Mrs. Roxton. Everybody in the family calls her Baby."

          Peng laughed into the night air. "Oh my God! I have got to hear that story. What was she, some hooker your Uncle Will wound up marrying?"

          Well, it was an evening for firsts! The guys had found out that Connor knew more about the occult than they thought. And they also found out that if you insulted Connor's Aunt Baby, he'd leap forward, grab you by the collar, and shove you against a utility door with a surprising bit of strength from a 10-year-old.

          "Take that back," Connor growled, slamming Peng against the door one more time to show that he meant business.

          The older boy looked down at Connor, bewildered, then regained his composure. "Y'know, the great thing about knowing Aikido," he said, "is that you can turn your opponent's strength against him." So saying, Peng latched onto the edge of the hand gripping him by the throat and tried to turn it . . . but it wouldn't budge. In fact, the pressure increased on him.

          "Y'know, the great thing about knowing just which vertebra I could break to leave you paralyzed from the chest down," Connor said, "is that I so rarely get a living specimen."

          There was a bark of laughter from the night. All four boys turned to look in the same direction. Striding into the pool of light around the dormitory's utility door was an amazingly beautiful young woman with a milk-pale face, hypnotic eyes, and black hair that swept down to the red-and-black gown she was wearing. She stepped up to the boys, smiling and shaking a finger at Connor. "You stole that line from my Spike," she said. "I heard him using it in a sparring session."

          Connor set Peng down and stepped toward her, smiling ruefully. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry, Auntie Dru." He wrapped his arms around her waist and hugged her.

          Drusilla patted his head. "Oh, but it was quite cute. Spike is an excellent role model for you."

          Peng stepped forward. "Uh, sorry ma'am. We were just disagreeing about—"

          Dru put a quieting finger to his lips. "You were calling Baby a whore," she said. "Try not to do it again and Connor won't need to get violent."

          The three older boys were blushing now—they were threatening to a kid like Connor but around Dru merely a group of loud-mouthed 12-year-olds. Drusilla wouldn't allow any hurt feelings to fester, though. She quickly herded them toward the minivan she'd borrowed from Angel Investigations and soon they were onto the highway to LAX. Connor rode shotgun, and the other three boys took the seat directly behind him and Dru. Drusilla was perfectly content to remain silent as they drove, and Connor was not in a mood to start conversation, so an oppressive silence filled the car until they arrived at LAX.

          Things had definitely not turned out as the older boys had wished. They were used to taking advantage of adults' views of them, but this mysterious woman had caught them in a rare unguarded moment. Add to that the fact that they didn't know just how long she'd been waiting in the darkness and how much she'd heard. So they hadn't ventured their usual wise remarks toward her, and it had left them with nearly nothing to say. Robbie, at least, saw what his friends were talking about: this Auntie Dru was quite the dark beauty, with a penchant for antique fashions that really made her stand out. But she was so cold, so restrained, that he was more wigged by her than attracted. 

          When the minivan pulled to a curb near one of the airlines' entrances, all three boys boiled out of the back seat and ran for the doors, not even bothering to say goodbye.

          "Nice boys," Dru observed as they sped off into the night.

          "They're monsters," Connor replied.

          "But aren't they your friends?"

          Connor turned weary eyes to her. "We're co-workers," he said. "Our job is school. That's about all we have in common."

          "Tsk. Too young to be so cynical."

          Connor just rolled his eyes in response. Dru drove for another few minutes in silence, then said, "Those boys shouldn't enter your mind at all. They're hardly monsters."

          Connor sighed. "I know. I've seen worse walking through the lobby at the hotel. They're just screwed-up boys." He shoved his hand against his mouth, jammed his elbow against the door where it met the window, and propped his head up. "I'm the monster," he mumbled to himself.

          And he had obviously forgotten that vampires could hear as well as he could. Drusilla hit the brakes with a horrendous squeal, and the car edged to the left. It spun completely around twice before sliding sideways for forty yards, tires shrieking, the occupants' world reduced to sound and adrenalin while cocooned in darkness. When they finally stopped, the car was perpendicular to oncoming traffic, blocking two lanes.  Cars from behind them had slid to the sides, knocking together and piling up like escorts. They pointed to the left, Dru's own window looking at the crashed and stopped cars that had been behind them. There was less than a minute of silence following their stop, then angry drivers began honking. The highway across the median witnessed an abrupt slowdown of its traffic, as drivers there started to slow on the off-chance of witnessing some blood.

Connor whipped his head around and started with, "What are you—" before Dru grabbed him.

          Dru held him by the shoulders and stared at him furiously. "Listen to me, my boy. You are NOT a monster. And I won't have you believe you are."

          The boy was stunned. He had never seen Auntie Dru angry at him in his entire life. "Wha?"

          She shook him. Roughly. The lights bouncing back through the windshield mixed with the lights of the dash to outline her in white and blue, the intensity of her huge eyes and snarling mouth striking Connor's eyes like neon. "Be clear on this. You're just a boy; you're a good boy. I've seen the light of goodness in you, and I won't watch it fade away!"

          There was a knock on the glass of the driver's side door—not someone looking to help the driver, but an angry motorist wanting them to get moving. Drusilla was in her game-face in the blink of an eye, spinning her head to roar at the unlucky human who interrupted her. The man outside screamed and ran, and Dru turned back to Connor with her game-face intact, yellow eyes flashing and fangs fully extended. She continued where she'd left off: "I am a monster; I know a good boy when I see one."

          Connor went from shocked to angry while the man outside had distracted them both. He struggled in Dru's hands but could not free himself. "I'm not afraid of you," he growled into her fanged, leonine face.

          Drusilla slipped back into her human features, but kept a serious expression. "That's the most foolish thing you've yet said," she told him. She released him and fell back into her seat, staring blankly at the windshield. Connor also stared forward, depleted. The honking outside was growing louder, but neither of them noticed.

          "Is it not enough for you that you're—"

          "Gifted?" Connor finished for her. "Do you know how much I hate that word? It's been on every report card I've ever had. Every time someone says it they're pointing some finger of responsibility at me. Even in the family—with all that Slayer talk."

          Drusilla winced. "And Wesley says—"

          "Yeah! Every chance Uncle Wes gets he tells me how lucky I am, how I'm practically a male version of the Slayer, how I have this great destiny awaiting me, how I'll lead the Scourge one day. From what Dawn used to tell me about how Slayers live, I'd rather skip the whole thing." He sighed. "'Gifted.' No one ever says that without wanting something from me. But I don't want that, not any of it. Being a monster is easier."

          Drusilla gave a short, sharp laugh, completely unlike the laugh that had broken up the fight earlier. "Oh, it is, Connor. It's so much easier. Which is why it would be a crime for you to become one."

          He turned in her direction, his eyes questioning. Drusilla rolled her head back, eyes closed, and moaned, "Oohhh, how to explain this to you? How can you know how human you really are?"

          Then she was suddenly staring at him, a hand pressed to his forehead. "Perhaps it's better if you see it for yourself." Usually she slid gently into his head, her power like a needle slipping into flesh. Now it was a spear, jabbed into his consciousness, brushing aside protests and defenses and stuffing itself into his mind. It was by far the most violent thing that had ever happened to him, despite his sparring sessions with Uncle Spike. He would remember it years later as the moment he was first treated like an adult, as someone who no longer needed to be treated with kid gloves. It was his real introduction into what it meant to be a fighter.

          Connor was rocked back in his seat by the experience. "I give you one day," Drusilla crooned. "One day, and you'll see, you'll know." His little 10-year-old back hit the seat, but he felt as if he had continued to tumble backward, as if he were falling into a gulf where there were no handholds, and what he was falling into was another person. He was beneath the surface before he knew it, unable to breathe, stretched thin and yet amazingly strong, he was . . . he was . . . 

          _I am Drusilla. There are three or four other names knocking about in my head, but I don't stop on them often. Except for Spike. I quite fancy him, though I've only known him 60 years or so. I trust him. Which is why I've spent the morning chasing him. Above us, hundreds of feet above, the killer sun batters the entire world, quite unfair for a Winter's day. But we are down in the Channel's deep, in the frozen darkness where boat propellers do not touch, and even the fish do not move quickly. That's how I know the quick flash of white before me must be Spike's feet, and I thrust myself after him. He shoots forward as well, laughing in his deep voice at me, it being the only sound we can make here—our lungs are full of water, but we don't care. We are sharks here, bored with the prey we could snatch from the liquid world around us and chasing each other._

_          We do this for hours, swirling around each other, tiny victories piling up. Twice I wrap myself around him and rocket toward the surface, daring to toss him up into the sunlight. Each time I force him to hurt me to free himself, and it's delicious when he does, because my Spike never hurts me on purpose. When he captures me he doesn't once threaten me with the same punishment. Ah well. He's good to me in other ways, he is, but it will never be love until he can push me past that point of danger. He thinks me fragile because he's so fragile himself inside. I need a man who can push me to new places, new depths. Ah, if only Daddy were here. Spike slides his hands over me when we're close, running his fingers to interesting places, but I am cold and closed—in every sense._

_          Finally it is dark above and we propel ourselves up, breaking the surface like porpoises, screaming into the night. I go up for a moment, but all too quickly fall back to the water. I feel cheated that I cannot fly; the darkness of our Channel depths beckoned us down and down until even our strong bodies were in danger; and now I see that the night stretches up into the sky and I want to join it. Back in the water, I swirl and dive and drive myself up again until I leap into the air, shooting a fountain of brine from my lungs, arms swept back to greet the black dawn with yellow eyes and fangs unsheathed. But I crash to the sea again, and now I just drift, no longer caring what awaits in the night's grazing field of victims._

_          My Spike glides up to me, long hair slick and tangled at his neck. He dips back down so that only his blue eyes skim above the water, then the rest of his face rises and he tries to kiss me. I turn away, just wanting to drift and sink and let the darkness take me in its arms. I've lived too long and I always expect too much. Why must I always know disappointment? Why must—_

_          "Fire, luv," Spike says._

_          I turn my head to see his pleading eyes. "Where?"_

_          He wraps an arm around my shoulders to turn my eyes back to shore. England crouches there in the sea, and on the corner where her great capital lays there is—_

_          "Fire," I say, watching gouts of flame erupt from the towers and buildings. Ooh, I can smell the pain and fear from here, almost hear the screams of loss and outrage. I taste the despair of mothers losing children, husbands losing wives, sons losing parents. And everywhere is fire, blood, chaos, and more fire. The evils of the old are burned off to prepare for new evils, to bring new sins to idle hands. It's all so . . . mesmerizing. _

_Planes are buzzing above the holocaust and I see the ghost of one before it dies, see it approaching us. Oh goodie, we're to have our meal delivered._

_          I still Spike, who's once again knocking at a shut door. "Hsst! We're about to have a playmate, Spike, and he's bringing din-din."_

_          His eyes light up and he grins broadly. "U-boat?" he asks._

_          "Icarus. He'll join us in the drink nearby."_

_          My clever Spike reads the subtext. "Large crew?"_

_          "Fighter. But the nice boy inside will be alive after impact. A confection for us, wrapped in glass and burning metal."_

_          "Where?"_

_          I point. "Let's start that way—he'll arrive soon enough." We both launch ourselves forward, swimming strongly for ten minutes before we're near the target zone. And just on time, a diagonal streak of fire stretches from the black skies to the water in front of us. Spike and I grin at each other in the sudden illumination, then let the smoke from the wrecked plane wash over us as we close upon it. We have to move fast, before it sinks—but we're the essence of fast, sharks risen up to feast on our bounty._

_          Spike breaks through the glass canopy and pulls our nice boy out, our chubby little pilot. The lad's half-conscious because of the impact, but the chilly water and our hands on his suit soon have him wild-eyed and shouting. It's lovely, his fear carrying across the wide waters. The plane sinks but we've captured its blood cargo. He flails like a tuna in a net, crying out for his god, and I have to laugh. I toss him to Spike, who falls back in the water as he catches the man. He then launches the prey up and over my head, and I have to swim fast to reach him before he hits the water. Oh, this is brilliant. We growl joyfully at each other as we begin our game of catch, widening the distance between ourselves with each throw, the man screaming pitifully the whole time and making us laugh all the more. Oh, such a pretty, pretty night._

_          Finally, after eight or ten passes, the distance is too great for even our strength, especially as we have no footing in the drink. I have to toss him into the space between us, and we come together on his struggling form, this human who has less than a minute to live. We dig into him from either side of his neck, finally stilling his attempts to swim away. Ooh, the blood is peppered with fear, swirling with adrenaline; it's like fire slipping down my throat and warming my belly. And other parts._

_          When the flesh is empty we toss it aside and hungrily join, sensing each others' arousal and giving in to it completely. Rolling tongues are cut by our fangs and this pain only heightens the sensation. We share blood, faces locked together, hands reaching for the good bits, and I am— I am—_

          Connor slid back into himself with no grace or even a warning. One moment he was an 80-year-old vampiress childe of Angelus feeding in the English Channel in 1940; the next he was the 10-year-old child of Angelus living in post-millennium L.A. He naturally had to shake his head to orient himself once he got over the impression that he was staring at himself in the driver's seat. No, that wasn't himself—it was Auntie Dru. He was Connor. He had a lifetime of memories to prove it. The boy shook his head again and became more fully in control.

          Outside, a crowd had formed from people getting out of cars. While Connor had been immersed in his day as Drusilla another foolhardy human had rushed up to the minivan, tearing at the door to see who was inside. He was greeted by Dru in full game-face, who then pushed him back from the vehicle so that he flew ten yards. Since then no one had approached, but the group of worried onlookers had greatly increased.

          "Have you recovered?" Drusilla asked stiffly.

          "Yeah," Connor said. "What the hell was that?"

          "I'm not telling," Dru answered. "You tell me—what have you learned?"

          "Huh?"

          "I'm not leading you through. You must tell me if that taught you anything about the subject of monsters."

          "Well, yeah! I mean, it was— there was so much—"

          "Yes?"

          "You enjoyed pain. And hurting other people," Connor said firmly.

          Dru nodded. "So does another one of your aunts. And she doesn't have the excuse of being a vampire. What else?"

          "Um. You drank blood."

          "So do a few African human tribes. What else?"

          "You didn't have a conscience? You didn't care about the guy you killed?"

          Dru nodded. "And what else?" When Connor merely shrugged, she growled deeply, shaking every window in the minivan. "So far you haven't touched on a point not shared by Faith when she was bad. She was monstrous, but not a monster. Come on, boy! You've been into the mind of a monster; tell me what a monster's like!"

          Connor stared at her—it was usually her husband who was the harsh teacher who pushed his thinking. Ah well, a first time for everything. He took a deep breath and said, "Uh, monsters are . . . animals." Dru gave him a raised eyebrow. "I mean, they're a part of the natural world. Law of the jungle and all that. 'Nature red in tooth and claw.' You and Spike were living just for the moment, not thinking about the past or planning for the future."

          "Like most demons do," Dru said. "And how is that different from humans?"

          "Are you kidding? Humans are always full of plans, building stuff up and tearing it down."

          "So what would you have to do to be a monster?"

          "Me? I guess if I just fed and slept and didn't think about anything else. If I was like some beast, but with a language. If I . . . If I did that over and over, every day." A thought was slowly creeping into his head as he considered the question. "If I didn't care. If I just took what I wanted and didn't think about consequences. I wouldn't even see a better way." The epiphany washed over him like a blanket being pulled away from his eyes. "Wait a minute. Demons don't like to change anything, do they?" Dru only shook her head. "If it was up to them, they'd live in, like, caves or wherever." Dru nodded. His eyes were wide as he said, "They don't . . . create."

          Dru nodded sadly once more. "No demon born ever had an original idea," she said. "They just kill and eat—it's all they know. Humans are the ones who make new things, who shape the world. And demons copy them, with temples and rituals and even magic. Humans are the only ones who make the world better. If it were up to demons the planet wouldn't have changed in 40,000 years."

          Confusion crossed Connor's brow. "But vampires—"

          "Are not the same thing, and you should know that. They are a mixture of demon and human, with the advantages of both. It's why we can create like humans . . . but we're still monsters at heart." Drusilla reached out and affectionately rubbed Connor's head, looking wistfully at him. "Do you see what you'd be giving up? What that human heritage of yours really means?"

          "I think so," Connor said, then looked down. "And I'm sorry for suggesting that I could throw it away."

          "It's all right. You still have plenty of years to learn."

          "ATTENTION, OCCUPANTS OF THE MINIVAN!" a loudspeaker roared. "STEP OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" 

          Only now did they notice the flashing lights from the police cars. Drusilla turned her head slowly to give every human who wasn't seated next to her a menacing glare. Policemen stood just a few yards away with guns drawn. Connor leaned forward so he could look out her window. "These guys are in so much trouble," he observed.

          "Indeed," Dru said. Her mind reached out and grabbed the policemen mercilessly; they jerked to attention, in complete thrall to their mistress, guns pointed at the ground. The two cops still in their cars got out and also stood at attention. The one on the loudspeaker turned to the crowd and calmly stated, "THE EMERGENCY IS OVER. PLEASE RETURN TO YOUR VEHICLES. TRAFFIC WILL BE FREE TO MOVE FORWARD IN TEN MINUTES."

          Dru started the minivan, ready to leave at that moment. Connor put a hand on her arm. "Wait. Can you do the joke? Please?"

          The vampiress sighed heavily. "I've been doing that joke for you since you were four. Over and over and over. Don't you ever get tired of it?"

          "It's classic, though. You've got to do it!"

          Drusilla put her hand on the gear shift. "No, I think not."

          "Wait!" Connor cried. "Y'know, even though you're controlling them now, they probably already have our plate number in their computer. And everybody out there can see 'Angel Investigations' on the side of the van."

          "Your point?"

          "When we get home you'll need somebody to hack into the police computers and erase that info. Somebody who's spent his childhood learning to do just that, and learned tricks from Willow that no one else is supposed to know about."

          "Which is why Winifred will—" Then she stopped. Connor must have known, like she did, that Fred and Charles were vacationing in the Bahamas. It was spring break, after all, which was why Connor was coming home. "You little monster," she mumbled.

          "Yeah, that's me," Connor said. "So, will you do it?"

          She looked down at him with harsh, accusing eyes, but was met with the pleading, puppy-dog expression taught to the boy by Dawn Summers. He'd been told that it had a magical effect on Order of Aurelius vampires, and he watched Drusilla's fury melt before his eyes. He really was on the verge of fake tears.

          "I'm getting as soft as Spike when it comes to you," she said aloud.

          "Nah. Uncle Spike gives me money," he said through a familiar smirk.

          "Alright. Keep your eyes on the policemen," she said, her power flowing back along the connection to the uniformed humans outside. Connor stood in his seat to get the best view. Dru turned her head and looked out the window, her eyes showing a faint yellow glow.

          "These aren't the droids you're looking for," she said.

          The policeman on the loudspeaker eagerly picked up the receiver. "THESE AREN'T THE DROIDS WE'RE LOOKING FOR. MOVE ALONG, MOVE ALONG."

          Connor was doubled over in his seat, gripping his stomach, laughing so hard that he was red-faced and in pain. Drusilla looked down at him in wonder. For this moment, this brief lapse in the day, he was just a normal 10-year-old with no worries or great destiny hanging over him, a boy who didn't have Web sites written in demonic script offering treasures for his body dead or alive, a boy in a safer, better world. It was a very good day when she could do that for him. Drusilla shifted the van into drive, turned to the right, and moved them back into the highway's darkness.

**TO BE CONTINUED in Age Fourteen and Age Fifteen**


	2. Age Fourteen

**AUNTIE DRU**

**by Fojiao2 (Kevin A. Poston) and Ebony Silvers**

**A tale about Connor from the Babyverse**

**DISCLAIMER: None of the characters used here belong to me; most of them belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Baby, The Pride, Jean Claude, René, and Claudia belong to Ebony Silvers. I profit from none of this.**

**RATING: R**

**SPOILERS: "Highway to Hell," "Slept So Long Without You," "Bed of Roses."**

**DEDICATION: For Ebony, who encouraged me in the writing of this.**

**AGE FOURTEEN**

          Just in time for his fourteenth birthday, Connor's family came home from space. He knew that wasn't literally true, that they'd been hopping dimensions and fighting demons, and for his benefit, too. But it made him more comfortable to think of them in outer space, jumping from world to world, and always looking back to the steadily-shrinking light of Sol burning in the blackness. He was much better at Astronomy, Chemistry, and Biology than at the more theoretical studies of Physics, Mathematics, and Philosophy. Just thinking about the implications of sliding into another dimension—of going to a place where another Connor was already twice the age he was now, with wild hair, bloody hands, and war paint—disturbed him.

          The family planned a wonderful birthday party, but then his birthday parties always were lavish. It was one of the few times that his doting father could be truly extravagant without Cordy's disapproving frown. Somehow they'd come back from a side-dimension without the reality-murderer, the demon that had been their target, but with a heavy case full of gold doubloons. Spike's comment—"They won't be needing it, lad,"—was all the explanation he was given about that. So not only was next year's tuition and the first three years of Notre Dame squared away, but they could afford to go really wild with decorations and treats for the party.

          It was a bash unlike any that Connor had ever attended, with all the adults a lot freer about their opinions and a lot drunker than he'd ever seen them. He felt very grown up walking around the full lobby, vampires, humans, and demons standing and talking with drinks in their hands, while the pop-funk band Stone Monkey jammed in the corner. Connor stuck his hands in his pockets and wandered around, seeing what he could see.

          By the office, Faith was lying on her side on the check-in counter, a margarita in the hand she wasn't propped on, smiling into the face of a very handsome vampire—one of Claudia's childer from Vicksburg, whose name Connor didn't know. She was surrounded by interested men, women, and vampires, all hungry for a taste of the Slayer's incredible body. And more than a few might get that taste. Faith had been a hilarious authority figure for Connor while his family was away. She was everything Charles Gunn wasn't: funny, wild, conveniently forgetful, and best of all, open to bribes. Not that he'd had all that much to bribe her about, just a few missed curfews. But he couldn't help it if he was drawn to the night and the excitement around L.A. after dark—it was in his nature.

          But Connor appreciated the stern authority of Charles and Fred Gunn just as much. They were a steady anchor in the maelstrom that was his life. He looked over the lobby and found them, sitting next to Angel and Cordelia, naturally. Charles was on a bench, dressed in comfortable clothes, while Fred sat behind him and draped her arms over her husband's shoulders, leaning against him and talking animatedly to Angel. Connor wished that he could have seen the Gunns when he was a baby, before they were an old married couple. He'd heard stories of Charles back then, of the wild boy from the streets who turned against everything he knew to side with a vampire, and in so doing found the love of his life. That was not the man Connor knew; the boy was familiar with a battle-scarred veteran, the no-nonsense administrator and fighter who kept the business running well while Wes and Dru were off to New Orleans, or Angel and Cordy were off to other dimensions. He was told that Charles had not trusted Angel much in those early days; again, it was hard to believe, since he'd seen more than once how Charles unhesitantly put his life in Angel's hands. But then, everything had changed in the intervening years. Connor had even heard stories about how Wes and Charles had competed for Fred's hand, an image that set him laughing every time he considered it. The blade-wielding, gleeful killer they all knew and loved paired off with the Texas girl? Hilarious!

          Angel felt himself being watched and looked up to catch his son's eyes. He called the boy over, and Connor dutifully crossed the room to accept a hug from his dad. "You're just getting so big!" Angel observed, messing up the boy's hair. "I swear you must have grown two inches while we were gone."

          Connor rolled his eyes. "No, Dad, nothing much changed."

          "And how's the wound?"

          Connor frowned. "The one Ma checked the minute you guys got back? It's not a wound anymore, it's just a scar."

          "You don't want to show it?" Angel asked. "It's a mark of battle."

          Charles put out a hand. "Angel—"

          "Dad," Connor said, his voice shaking, "it's nothing more than a sign that I was lucky. And that Joseph took the shot that was meant for me." He and Charles had wrestled with this particular demon for weeks, but Angel was still new to his son's feelings about Joseph's sacrifice. René's childe had been a marvel with a sword, and the first to leap into battle against the demon, even over his sire's protest. And he'd paid the ultimate price.

          "But— But that's not how it was at all," Angel protested. "Any of us would have taken that stake for you, son." Connor's eyes grew wide with horror. "I mean to say, we were all in that battle together. It wasn't your fault that Joseph died."

          "AND," Charles said, leaning forward and putting a hand on Connor's shoulder, "you shouldn't feel guilty that you lived. I've told you this. We're warriors here, and we expect to die in any fight we're in. But you're still innocent, Con; back then you definitely weren't ready to fight that thing."

          "He's right," Angel said. "We chased it over seven dimensions, Connor, and the closest we came was being in the same city. It's smart, powerful, and too dangerous for any of us to handle alone. You have nothing to feel guilty about."

          The young man sighed heavily, fists clenched, expression determined. "But I should be ready. It's my destiny."

          "Oh, honey." Cordy was instantly off her seat and hugging Connor to her, stroking his hair and speaking to him softly. "You need to appreciate it while you're still innocent. You'll be drawn into fighting all too soon, believe me, and then you'll be hungry for a bit of quiet."

          Connor pulled away from her, looking from her to Angel and absorbing their concerned expressions. "Thanks. Um, I'm gonna look around the party a bit more. I still haven't seen everybody."

          Cordy gave him a searching look, her arm still around his shoulders. "You sure you're okay?"

          "As okay as I can get," he replied, and then he was lost in the crowd, moving away at vampire-speed. Cordelia sat down heavily behind Angel and wrapped her arms around his waist, leaning her head on his broad shoulder. Her little boy was growing up far too quickly to suit her, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. For the first time, she was hit with the reality that her boy actually would take up the fight against evil. Watching him spar with Spike was one thing; and teaching him about demons was just common sense considering life around the Hyperion. They could talk seriously about his graduating at 16 and going to Notre Dame early, but the truth was that he'd be very lucky if he completed even one year at college. Forces were gathering, and his destiny as a leader in combating apocalypse was becoming clearer. She held Angel tighter, using him as a barrier against a world too harsh for her, as always.

          Meanwhile, Connor was moving around the crowded lobby looking for anything that would make him look and feel more grown-up. Wasn't there anyone there younger than himself?! Couldn't Dawn Summers have brought her toddler? The person he really wanted to find was Uncle Spike. Spike would slip him liquor, cigarettes, money—whatever he might need to play the rebel for the evening. Maybe he'd have better luck out in the courtyard.

          On his way out to the equally-crowded courtyard he bumped into some guy leaning against the door, looking up at the stars. "Oh, sorry—" Connor began, then caught the man's teal-blue eyes looking down at him in confusion. His smile broadened: "Hey René! It's good to see you!"

          The vampire finally seemed to have recognized Connor. "Heeyyy," he said slowly, "Angel fils.  You a big boy now, heh?"

          "You know it," Connor answered, eyeing the beer in René's hand. "Uh, think I could have some of your beer?"

          René seemed to have just noticed the bottle in his hand. He was obviously a lot more drunk than he appeared, but at least he was still upright. The Master of Mobile looked at his nearly-full beer thoughtfully and said, "Angel, he be pissed I give you this."

          "Yeah, I guess so," Connor said, lowering his gaze to the floor in disappointment. Had that even been a question?

          René thrust it forward. "Go crazy, kid," he said before wandering off, chuckling at the chance to frustrate Angel in any way.

          Connor clutched his new treasure, then leapt forward to land one-footed on the stone rim of the fountain in the courtyard, took a second to eye his next goal, and leapt up to stand on the third-floor roof of the patio. The young man didn't get the chance to display his abilities much, but everyone at the party knew that he was more than just human, so he could be himself. He was now alone and looking down on the crowd in the courtyard, safe from prying eyes. Only those on the hotel's roof had a better view of the moon. 

He tilted his head back and poured the cool beer down his throat. Hmm, strange. He could taste the wheat for some reason, taste the hops and the other chemicals that went into its being. And the alcohol, naturally. But it was smoother than he expected, not the sharp slap of alcohol that he'd gotten from experiments with vodka and Jim Beam. He looked over the roof's edge and considered jumping down immediately to finagle himself another beer.

          But a sound caught his interest, something that he wouldn't have heard at all if not for his special abilities. It was a cry, and his instincts naturally turned him in its direction, seeing if he could help. The cry came from a third-floor window of the North Wing, in line with the roof where he stood. When he focused on it the sounds from behind the glass came a lot more clearly.

          The cry was now a word: "Please." And it was without a doubt Drusilla—no other accent, even Spike's, was as strong. She was definitely crying out the word, but . . . was she moaning as well? What was going on? "Please," she yelped again, and Connor stepped toward the window.

          "My dear," said a man's voice in the room with her: Uncle Wes. "I have no idea what you want. Be precise in your language or you'll get no service from me."

          "Wesley," Dru moaned. "The roooopes! They're so tight!"

          "As well they should be," Wes responded. "You need restraint, my darling, and I'm just the man to give you what you need."

          "Oh, I do need it, Wesley." Her voice was plaintive, pleading. "Please give me more. Don't be angry with Princess, my Wesley."

          Connor heard Wes move toward her, and heard that all-too-familiar sound that he'd often been told to ignore: a hand doing a long, long slide against bare skin without a break, obviously too much skin for the recipient to have clothes on. He heard the gentle kiss Wes gave to his wife. "I'm not angry with you, my love. You know that. But you need to be more specific in your requests. Tell me what you want, Drusilla, my darling."

          "I need you. I need you inside me, lover."

          Connor heard Wes sigh heavily and then step across the room. "I don't think you're ready yet."

Drusilla's reaction was immediate: ropes were pulled, limits were tested, and powerful feet slammed into the floor. Likewise, she growled and gnashed her fangs, threatening reprisals in the emotional language of vampires, a language Connor spoke. He couldn't see it, but he was sure that Wesley was shaking his head at her display: he'd seen the same thing happen again and again over the years.

          Connor now knew that whatever was going on in that room was completely private, and even if it wasn't—if Spike was sitting on the bed watching the scene and just not making noise—then nothing there was meant for 14-year-old ears. Two days before he'd been 13. Would he make better choices at 16? At 18? He only knew that he had this moment, that the whole area of sex interested him immensely. And that with the family he'd been given, he'd be able to see a wide range of sexual activity before long. He'd experiment, like he did with alcohol, and see what suited. So in a sense, listening to this might be a way of exploring his self, of finding his own likes or dislikes.

          In the end, he'd tell himself whatever he needed to. He wanted to listen, and that was that. Connor moved carefully across the tar-paper-and-gravel roof, knowing that the ears in that room were as sensitive as his own. It was much like the prowling after prey that Uncle Spike taught him. He made his breathing as shallow as possible, cursing the fact that he needed to breathe, knowing it might give away his presence outside the window. Still, he moved closer.

          Things had gotten quiet in the room. Finally, Wesley said, "Are you done?"

          "Please let me go, my Wesley."

          "You don't want to be free," he told her. "You want what only I can give you."

          Connor could hear the smile in her voice. "Yesssss," Dru said. "I want what you give me, Wesley my Wesley.  Give it to me!"

Wesley sighed deeply once more. "My love," he said, "That wasn't nice. You tried to nip me. And you shouted at me. You know I don't like it when you raise your voice to me. That was very naughty. Do I need to punish you?"

"Yes."  Her voice was layered in honey, sweet and thick.  "Punish me, my sweet flower.  Hurt me.  I was very bad.  I have no control.  I need to learn control…"

          Wesley's voice moved away from her, across the room. "My love," he said, "I have seen you stop time and make it dance on a pin. Your natural state of being is two steps ahead of everyone around you. It is impossible that you lost control.  You wanted blood, you wanted it quickly, and you couldn't wait to take it from me when I said you could."

          "Don't walk away!  Please come back. Touch me."  She shrieked in frustration.  "If you won't I'll have to find someone who will!  I need it so much."

          Wesley's response was something involving the ropes—probably tightening them, Connor thought, judging by the hiss of pain Drusilla let out. "Yes! Oh yes, Wesley. Just like that. Oh thank you, Wesley. I knew you would do that. I always know what you'll do, my toy."

There was silence for a moment, then the sound of Wesley pacing around the room. "I see through your ploys and plots, my love," he said. "I'm not Spike. I won't fall for the cheap tricks that you used on him. I'm not here for a century plus of fun just to then stand by and watch you frolic with Angelus." Connor heard Wesley's quick stomp across the room and the sharp slap that he delivered to Drusilla. "I'm not a toy. You're mine, princess. Just as I am yours. That means forever. I would kill you, me, and any demon that got between us. You are mine."

          "Ooh, such pretty words," Drusilla cooed. "I'm yours. Always." There was the sound of a kiss. "But come, pet, Mommy's tired of arguing. I just wanted to hold you to me. I promise to be good. It won't happen again. Please. I want to continue our game. Please, play the game."

          "Very well. I asked for direction earlier and you've never given it. All you've done is try to manipulate me. Now: Tell. Me. What. You. Want!"

          There was the tiniest pause before Drusilla whispered, "Hurt me. Hurt me, my love. Give me pain. I want you to give me lovely pain that leaps like fish through my limbs. I want juicy, crunchy pain that catches in my throat. I want you to make me scream, my sweet."

          Silence followed for a few seconds, then Connor heard the distinct sound that defined Wesley for him: that particular switchblade opening in Wes's hand. The boy then heard him walk slowly over to his bound wife. "Very well; all is forgiven, but this game is of high stakes, my beauty. Like every other day between us. I can give you what you want. You know that. No one can give you more. I can give you pain even Angelus and Spike never dreamed of."

          "If only you meant it," she hissed at him. "If only you dared."

          "Oh, I dare!" Then the unmistakable sound of a blade cutting flesh, quick slices.

          Drusilla chuckled, the sound making Connor shudder. "You missed the artery, my love," she said.

          "I know," Wes replied. "I'm attacking the pain centers, not your circulation."

          "But I don't feel—" Dru began, then there was another quick slice. "Oh! Oh yes!  Oh Wesley!!" There was another slice and Dru gasped. "Oh yes. More! I need more. Oh, it hurts, Wesley. Make it hurt more!" The sound of another cut caused Connor to swallow hard. "Wesley. The pain! It's the color of flaming coral. It flows through me. It tastes like lemons and honey!" She growled. "More! I need mo…Oh! Wesley! Wesley!!!!" All the ropes tensed, shrieking at the pressure applied to them, and Dru's voice keened into ultrahigh pitches. It lasted an amazingly long time—Connor didn't understand why every vampire in the hotel wasn't on their way to this room. Then he remembered the soundproofing that was put into some of the North Wing rooms, and that he was hearing only what leaked through the window.

          Finally, Dru seemed to relax: at least she was panting and no longer screaming, and it sounded as if she were swinging on the ropes, allowing them to support her, rather than pulling on them. Connor heard Wes say quietly: "My knowledge of shakras and chi flow have several uses, dear heart. You never had cause to test them until now. We've never gone so far before, my dulcet darling."

          Drusilla's voice was half-whisper, half-moan. "My Wesley, my dearest love. I had to know. You had to push me."

          There were tears in Uncle Wesley's voice. "Had to know what? My love for you? You had only to look in my mind, precious; it would have told you everything."

          "No," she moaned. "That would tell me how you felt. I had to know what you would do. Had to know you'd act on that love.  Had to see how far you'd go. Needed to feel what you'd do to make me better, to make us better."

          Connor heard the ropes being sliced by Wes' switchblade, heard Drusilla's limbs hit the floor and heard Wes shift her body onto his, heard his hands brushing over her wounds, heard him kiss what cuts he could. "Never doubt me for a moment, darling," he said. "I will always be here for you. I'll always be here and willing to give you what you need, what you want."

          "Not your fault, dear Wesley," she whispered. "Too many lovely men. Not enough love. Only Daddy ever pushed me, but he didn't love me. Spike loved me but he wouldn't push me.  He didn't love me enough."

          "I do, my lovely girl," Wes breathed. "I'll be with you until the stars burn out, I swear. This year, on my birthday: I'll have Baby turn me. I'll join you in the dark garden, my sweet. We'll be together in eternal night, love." Then the sound of kissing.

          Dru was the first to break away. "I am sorry I ever doubted you, darling.  No man has ever been stronger than you, my love.  No love has ever been stronger."

          "Rest your mind about it, dove," Wesley replied. "I would do whatever I can to strengthen our love." More kissing, Connor listening closely. "Are you recovered? Can you stand yet?"

          Drusilla chuckled once more, this time with complete mirth. "I have never been hurt more, sweet Wesley," she said. "It was delicious. And no, I cannot stand. Help me to the bed?  Then we can finish what we've started. I still want you inside me."

          Wesley laughed, deep and low.

          "Hear anything interesting?" came a familiar voice behind Connor. The young man leapt like a cattle prod had been laid against his back. His senses were so tuned to hear the slightest whisper from Wes and Dru's room that the question, though said in a normal tone of voice, seemed to be shouted at him. Connor landed in a defensive stance, ready to face any attack, but he realized that he recognized the man who'd spoken: Jean Claude, chief childe of Spike's Pride.

          He was definitely not "Uncle" Jean. Though the first of Spike's childer, he was almost a stranger to Connor. The boy had seen him more when he was younger, but as Spike's empire in New Orleans had grown, Jean's opportunities to visit L.A. had shrunk. Though he'd last seen Jean when the vampire had fought to save his own young life, just before the Scourge began dimension-hopping, he couldn't remember the taciturn Cajun saying anything. Connor had no idea what to expect, didn't know how much the old man had heard. He just knew that he was in trouble.

          "Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Jean growled, stepping forward.

          Connor had grown up in this hotel: he didn't need to look to know how far above him the roof was. He smirked at the approaching figure and said, "Catch me." He was instantly up in the air, already spinning around so he could grab a window ledge and vault himself onto the roof, moving at vampire speed the entire time.

          Only Angel knew the hotel's roof better than Connor. The boy slipped into shadows and then vaulted to the upper roof, leaping three stories without difficulty. Unfortunately, he could feel the older vampire right behind him, not having needed to take an intermediary step. Connor kept moving forward, though, never looking back, knowing that his senses would let him feel exactly where the vampire was behind him. Obviously he wasn't going to lose Jean on the roof. Maybe on one of the streets surrounding the hotel? Jean didn't know L.A. like Connor did—at least, that's what Connor was praying. He made a sharp right turn, heading for the hotel's front. He felt that he had just avoided Jean's grabbing hand, which was closer than he had sensed. He leapt from the South Wing roof to the East Wing roof, then threw himself off that toward the sidewalk waiting below.

          He wasn't nearly as strong as he was going to be. He landed hard, but without damage, and was disoriented. His breath was knocked out of him and the muscles in his legs were screaming in pain. Connor knew that he had disturbed two vampires who were sprawled along the front steps of the hotel, the male on top and the female below him. They were growling at the interruption. This was all his senses told him, though, so he swayed on his feet and stared at them, a hand held to his head to steady his blurred vision.

          "Oi! Connor! What are you doing here, brat?" he heard. The voice held more confusion than anger. His head cleared as Connor realized that it was Spike and Baby who were wrapped around each other on the front steps.

          "Uncle Spike?"

          Suddenly Jean Claude landed on the sidewalk next to him, his strong right hand landing on Connor's shoulder with an almost equal weight and power. Connor looked up into the Cajun's scowling face, then back to Uncle Spike and Aunt Baby.

          Things were much clearer now. He could clearly see Spike's pale back turned to him, pants halfway down his ass, his uncle twisting his head around to look at the boy he'd helped raise. And pressed against him was Baby, equally shirtless, looking younger than he'd ever seen her because of her newly-won vampire status, and wearing what could have been a thong. Connor couldn't see that too clearly since Spike was doing what he could to hide his wife's attributes from the young man's eyes. Baby was staring at him wide-eyed, bringing her hands from around Spike's neck to also attempt to cover herself.

          "Jean!" Spike said. "Can your get your mother's shirt for us? It's over on that car." Connor looked to his right, and sure enough, on one of the cars parked against the curb both Spike's and Baby's shirts were thrown against the trunk, as well as a pair of tight black pants that could only be Baby's.

          But Jean clearly didn't want to let go of Connor now that he had his hands on the boy. He hesitated, then said, "Papa, this boy—"

          "Dammit!" Spike said, his voice not half so charitable as before. "Since when do I have to give orders twice around here?! Get the shirt, Jean. Now."

          That cleared up Jean Claude's hesitancy. He shifted his hand so that he held firmly onto Connor's forearm and dragged the young man with him to the car. Connor was a bit more aware now, though, and didn't make it easy for Jean, dragging his heels and giving the man dirty looks. When Jean snatched up the shirt, Connor decided to make another bid for escape, hoping his words could do what his physical attempt at escape hadn't. He started to jerk at Jean's hand, saying, "Let me goooo. Let me goooo, you're not my dad, let me goooo." He put a fair amount of whine into it, knowing how it would affect Uncle Spike.

          And Spike delivered. "Let him go," Spike ordered as he was handed the shirt. He passed it to Baby and kept his back to the other two, blocking their views of her. Jean let go of Connor's arm, but he spun around to give Baby some privacy and turned Connor to do the same, keeping his hand on Connor's shoulder. The young man, of course, kept twisting his head around, trying to see what he could.

          In just a few seconds Spike said, "Okay," and both Jean and Connor turned around to see the couple standing, arms around each other. Spike's pants were fastened and around his waist, and Baby's shirt came down to mid-thigh, so they were both securely covered. "So what's happening here, Jean?" Spike asked.

          "The boy—" Jean began.

          "It was nothing!" Connor bawled. "I just had—"

          "A beer," Spike said. "I can smell it on your breath from here."

          As Connor well knew he could. "Okay, okay, so I snuck a beer. C'mon, Uncle Spike, let me get back to the party." He knew that, if he admitted to this one crime, he just might be able to sneak away before Jean filled them in on his other bit of business. And who knew, it might be too embarrassing for Jean to admit, since he'd have to have listened to the activities in that bedroom also. He just might not mention it. Connor wished he knew Jean better, so he could manipulate the man.

          "There's more," Jean Claude said. Spike raised an eyebrow.

          Connor shot the Cajun a hateful look. "Naah. C'mon, Uncle Spike, I haven't seen my dad in more than a month. Can't I go tell him how much I love him?"

          Baby hid her smile. Spike shook his head, tsking. "Cor, I thought I taught you to play poker better than that," he said. "Just overplayed your hand, lad. What was he up to, Jean?"

          "Um. Well." Jean found that, when it came to actually saying it, it was fairly embarrassing. Like tattling on a schoolmate. But as a father himself, he knew that he'd want to know. "He was listening. To Wesley and Drusilla. In their room."

          Spike looked confused. "In their room? What—?" 

          "Listening to what they were doing. In their room."

          Connor suddenly found the pavement at his feet very interesting: he couldn't look up, not to save his life. He heard Baby give a hiccup of laughter and then cover it with her mouth. "Well. Hmm," Spike said, a smile obvious in his voice. "Uh, you know that's not right, don't you, Connor?"

          The teen nodded sulkily.

          "And you know that they weren't trying to hurt each other, they—"

          Jean cleared his throat.

          "Yes, Jean?"

          "Uh, forgive me, Papa. But this wasn't just anyone. It was Wes and Dru."

          "Ouch," Baby said. "He's right. They do run the whips and chains concession for the hotel. 'Hurt' was probably the main entrée. That's a lot to take in."

          "Look!" Connor said, his head whipping up. "I know—" Actually looking into the eyes of his beloved aunt and uncle was a bit much. Connor swallowed what felt like a billiard ball and then found his voice again. "I know that they weren't doing what you'd call 'normal.' But— But what do you call normal around here? Orgies in the pool and Slayers in bustiers? Nobody explained consort marks to me until last year, and then only because I thought that not having a scar on my neck meant I wasn't really part of the family. And then I had to be told why Uncle Wes' neck scars are different! So how will I learn anything if I have to wait for your explanations? There's nothing 'normal' around here, nothing. I mean, these are the front steps, and you two were just about— you were just about to . . ."  He found that he couldn't finish his statement.

          Jean now looked down on the boy without his judgmental strictness. He wondered how he would have handled the highly sexed atmosphere of the Scourge when he was fourteen.

          Spike and Baby were also looking at their nephew as if they'd suddenly taken on a weight of years in the last few seconds. He really was growing up right before their eyes, which meant that soon enough he'd be out in the world risking his life. Just the thought of losing him someday made them shiver. Both vampires promised themselves that they'd spend more time with Connor now that they were back home.

          "Oh, Connor, honey," Baby said. "I don't even know where to start. All of this—"

          Spike put up a hand. "All of this," he said, "will be better addressed by your mom and dad, Connor. We'll talk to Angel—I think we'll ALL have a big talk with him—and then he and your ma can talk to you tomorrow night. For tonight—why don't you go to your room?"

          Connor opened his mouth to protest, but Spike said, "No arguments. I think you've had enough excitement for tonight."

          Connor balled his hands into fists and stood his ground. "I'm not a baby," he said. "And you're not my dad. If HE tells me to go to my room I will."

          "Then go to your room," said Angel, stepping out of the shadows that cloaked the front door. Baby had sensed her sire behind her, but Spike and Jean were surprised to see him there, and Connor was gobsmacked, his mouth hanging open. This one moment had more honesty than he'd shared with his father in years, and it frightened Connor to his core. He nodded and slipped past his father's black-clothed form to get inside.

          "How'd you know he was here?" Spike asked.

          "You ever try to listen in on Drusilla without her knowing you're there?" Angel asked. "Can't be done. She sent down a message that I should get out here. At first I thought I'd just catch the show—" He looked right at Baby as he said this, and she found she couldn't meet his eyes—"But then Connor dropped down."

          "That's a situation you have to handle toute suite," Spike said, finger pointing at his grandsire.

          "Yeah, but I'm like Baby: where do I start?"

          "With love," came Jean Claude's voice, making them all look to him. "Your first words and your last words to him should be love. Because that's why we do what we do, n'est-ce pas?"

          With a big smile, Baby disengaged from Spike and went to hug her dear child. "Yes," she whispered to him, then turned to Spike and Angel with her arm around Jean's shoulder. "We're all here because of love. And that's what he has to know."

          In his room in the North Wing, Connor tried to read, but soon found it impossible. Tim Powers books usually drew him away from himself and into a different world, but not this night. His real library was in his dorm room, but he kept a few select books here in his room at the Hyperion. He looked them over, seeing if there was anything that might inspire or distract him. His gaze wandered across the autographed hardback copy of _Dune_ that Baby had given him. This in turn made him think of Baby, and then of Baby on the front steps wearing just a thong, and then—

          So reading wasn't helping to remove all these thoughts of sex. What else was there? He hit upon the brilliant idea of going to sleep early, so that he'd be asleep when the party broke up after midnight. That way he very well might miss the nightly show that his ears sensed. He was asleep before midnight, but he'd forgotten that the hotel would be completely full this night with celebrating vampires and minions from L.A. and New Orleans, and whomever else they might pull in. Around 3 A.M. the noise was too much, forcing him awake.

          It was unfair that so few rooms in this hotel had soundproofing panels. Grunts and groans and moans and roars; beds squeaking, or shower doors rhythmically shaking; the familiar rip of clothes being torn apart and the breathy, hurried laughter that accompanied it; all of this was quite evident to Connor's vampiric-level hearing ability. And it was torture, every bit of it. He couldn't help but imagine the smooth bodies sliding against each other, making those wet, succulent sounds. Thank God he lived at school and didn't have to suffer through this all the time. But still, the holidays were a nightmare for him, and the pressure was doubled because he had to work overtime to make sure that Cordy didn't pick up on his feelings. She was naturally empathic and very good at recognizing things most people hid away—but Connor was sure that he would just drop dead if Cordy tried to talk to him about how everything he saw or did was now about sex.

          Cordy was Ma, had always been Ma. But one really evil voice in the back of his head told him that, no, she wasn't really his mother. Everybody knew that his real mother was dead, that Cordy's closest relation to him was actually just as his father's consort. And thus, continued that voice, what was the harm? What was the harm in taking a lingering look at those perfect breasts, at that tight tight ass as it walked past him, or considering some preciously-treasured memories of seeing her tanned midriff during a volleyball game last summer? Or the way she moved, and grunted as she hit the ball, and her mouth hung open in anticipation, and he wanted to, he wanted to—

          But no, there was no way that idea was happening anywhere outside of his head. And it was bad that it was there in the first place. But there was worse. There was a cavalcade of women who danced before his imagination when he allowed himself to consider them.

          Baby was the most obvious candidate. God, the revealing clothes she wore, the heavy, smoldering looks she gave to Spike whenever he was in the room (and the looks she gave Angel when she thought no one was looking), the way her hands roamed under her husband's clothes at every opportunity: everything she did screamed "lust." Spike and Baby had been careful to hide everything from him when he was younger, but since he'd turned thirteen he'd noticed that Baby's attentions were getting a lot bolder while he was still in the room—at exactly the time he would have appreciated more modesty from them they were cutting loose! The incident on the front steps was only the latest example. With her cursing, hard-drinking attitude, she was every teenage boy's fantasy of the dirty woman who'd introduce him to the roller coaster of sex if he gave her the slightest nod. She was in an almost-constant state of arousal when she was near Spike; Connor's senses told him that plainly enough. This fact alone brought all sorts of scenarios to mind: having Spike watch his first time would be embarrassing, but it just might be worth it if he could have Baby for a night. Especially now that she was a vampire. When he considered all the opportunities he'd missed, all the things he'd walked in on by mistake when he was younger and disgusted by seeing them all naked—oh, that perfect, special memory he kept like a jewel in a case, just two years before, when he caught the Scourge, all six of them, frolicking naked in the pool. He had to rush off to be alone whenever he thought about it, replaying it in slow motion through his head, seeing Baby's breasts bounce across Spike's face, watching his father playfully spank Cordy's bare ass, glimpsing Drusilla floating on her back with her eyes closed and wearing nothing but a secretive smile while Wes ran his tongue across her tight abs. But of course, there were other women to consider.

          Fred wore tops that were far too revealing—and did she EVER wear a bra? Not in his memory. And the way Uncle Charles would sometimes grab her ass when she walked by, and they'd both chuckle at each other—he wanted to do something that possessive with a woman, wanted her to know that she was his.

          Faith. What more was there to say? To contemplate her name was to see the cool, strong sensuality of the woman. Every move she made was pure sex; every look she gave from under those tousled brunette locks could be interpreted as an invitation. Throw in the bustiers and hip-hugging jeans that were her usual dress, and she was a walking advertisement for Slayer Sex. Not that Connor thought he had a chance in Hell with her—in the weeks that the Scourge was gone she'd made it very clear that he was still a little boy in her eyes. But Connor imagined himself in the place of the men she'd bring home constantly, seeing himself grown and powerful, the rich scion of the Master of Los Angeles leaning against a bar, just waiting for Faith to walk up to him, to trace a finger over his chest while he looked down into her eyes, to hear her whisper wonderful, filthy things into his ear. Oh, Faith. Sometimes just saying her name was enough to get him aroused.

          Claudia. Oh, to sink into those milk chocolate depths. The fact that he didn't know her well, that she was still very mysterious to him, only made her more capable of fitting into his fantasies. He had seen her fight to save his life just a few months before, and still remembered her game-face very well. He wasn't a connoisseur of such things, but he felt she had the best-looking demonic features he'd ever seen. He had more than enough experience to know that choosing a vampire lover might be a real option for him, and he had to consider things like what his mate would look like in her game-face. He certainly didn't see it as ugly in any way, just different. He liked the lion-like quality of vampiric faces, and felt that Claudia's showed more power and nobility than any he'd seen. So when he fantasized about being with a vampiress in full game-face—and discovering just how much of her body changed with the transformation—he always pictured Claudia.

          And there was Dawn. Now that was really sick. His former babysitter, someone who'd changed his diapers (of course, so had Cordy, so had Fred, maybe even Baby for that matter). Dawn was married now and in a city far away, but in his evil teenage boy memory she was clearly in front of him, that long long hair and attitude. She had always been such a strong personality, a never-say-quit strength that had been his bane when he was a kid but was now very attractive to him. Plus, she was a Slayer, and he wouldn't have to hold back any of this strength with her. She'd been just about his age when he was born, but now he could easily see himself pushing her against a wall, raining kisses down that long perfect neck, seeing that fire in her eyes as she tried to pull away but not being able to because he was strong as well, he was the man, he was the reason she was there, she wanted it, she wanted him, and her hand was jamming into his pants and wrapping around—

          Connor shook his head. Best not to go there. Especially with Drusilla back in the hotel. Things had grown strained between them in the last few years, and both of them knew why: nothing was scarier to a teenage boy than a woman who could see what was going on in his head. He turned red and left the room whenever she entered, because it was his natural instinct to imagine any beautiful woman who entered the room as naked for a moment—and he did this with Dru as well, and knew that she knew.

          At 4 A.M. he slipped on a shirt and exercise pants and went downstairs to the hotel kitchen, knowing he was not going to be able to sleep until the daylight returned and forced most of the happy humpers throughout the hotel to actually sleep. Knowing that others could sense his presence as well as he sensed theirs, he moved as stealthily through the hallways as he could, hoping he wouldn't interrupt anyone by passing their door. He was so quiet, in fact, that coming around a corner he saw a door open halfway down the hallway and was able to jump back and keep himself hidden, though with an eye on who else was moving around at this hour. And he was greeted with a sight straight from his fantasies: Faith, completely naked except for a gold chain around her waist, snuck from one room, crossed to another three doors down, knocked quietly and was given entrance. Only when that door closed did Connor allow himself to breathe once more. He closed his eyes and gave himself an instant replay of what he'd just witnessed. God. A woman in her mid-thirties should NOT look that good, but she was flawless. He smirked to himself as he went down that hall, then hit the scent-trail that Faith had left in her movement and he mindlessly traced it with his own steps, lost in the heady cocktail of her arousal, the man she'd just been with, and the spicy expectant aroma of the woman into whose room she'd just gone. Hmm, Claudia. Yet another fantasy image that he'd spend too much time imagining. And it increased Claudia's interest as a fantasy partner by twenty whole points.

          He finally reached the first floor and the kitchen's swinging doors. It was a benefit of being home that offset the liabilities: a 24-hour kitchen, with a variety of dishes that even his school's upper crust dining hall couldn't match. He was in the mood for a bagel with some lox and melted cheese. It didn't matter that it was so early—his metabolism allowed him to eat practically anything, and he was on such a rigorous schedule of training and sparring that he didn't have to worry about putting on weight. If anything, he was too skinny, a fact that Cordy nagged him about. And the irony of Miss Never-Too-Thin-Or-Too-Rich 2002 doing that was not lost on her.

          Connor was just past the first rank of steam tables when he sensed someone else in the kitchen. Specifically: a vampire, and an old one. One of his relatives must be up raiding the fridge, so he sauntered up to the big steel refrigerator to see who was there. The face that came around the fridge's door to greet his own was unexpected: Drusilla.

          He stared at her and she stared back. They hadn't been this close to each other in more than a year, as Connor had ensured. Coming under her intense scrutiny was his private nightmare. His eyes, unable to stay on the enormous power of her eyes, tried to extract other details around him. He saw that her hand was gripping the edge of the door, and around her wrist were lengthy, patterned purple bruises. The thought came unbidden to his head: _Know how she got those, I know how she got those bruises_.

          Drusilla's eyes squeezed near-shut with suspicion. "You know how I earned my bruises, eh?" she asked.

          In one second, Connor's worst fear was made real. _She read me, oh God, she read me, now she knows what I'm thinking, she knows all those dirty things I've been considering, knows what I've thought about her, knows what I just saw with Faith, knows_—

          Dru switched her hand from the fridge door to Connor's forehead. "Quiet," she ordered. "You need to sit down."

          The young man looked around the kitchen: the only stools were a good thirty feet away, by a large cutting table. "Where?" he asked.

          Drusilla grabbed his shirt, bunched it in her fist, and picked him up, setting him down on the countertop facing the refrigerator. Connor sat there quietly, watching her put back the bag of blood she'd come down to drink and then close the door. She was in a long crimson silk nightgown, sheer and lingering over every curve and delicious plane on her body. It was floor-length, like most of the dresses she wore, and so she appeared to float as she paced in front of Connor. In this costume, at this hour, in the weird blue fluorescent lights of the kitchen, she looked more like a movie vampire than he'd ever seen her, like one of the weird sisters from Dracula's castle, with her flowing hair and Victorian manner.

          "Do you know how angry I am with you?" she asked, her voice shattering the silence that had descended between them both.

          He put his head down, expecting her condemnation. "Yeah."

          She stopped in mid-stride. "No," she said. "Not about _that_. Do you think I care what a 14-year-old boy thinks about sex? You haven't even done it yet, so your images aren't very clear." She strode forward, an accusing finger pointing into his face. "You've shut yourself off from me. For years! That is what makes me angry."

          Connor stared at her. "But— But I thought . . . you'd be disgusted with me. With what I was thinking."

          Drusilla stared again, then brought her hand to her mouth in horror. "That's really it? You just thought—" Without warning, she hugged the young man to her. "Connor. You're my special boy. I love you. I could never do you harm."

          Connor hugged her back desperately, using it as a way to hold back his tears. "Even with what I've been thinking?"

          "I'll never look in your mind again, if that's what you want," she said, though his thoughts were flowing over her in waves and she was sifting through months of guilt and self-loathing. She heard the statement he'd made earlier that night and broke her hold on him to look him deeply in the eyes. "Connor, whatever you think: you are 'normal,' even if you don't see it around you. Every other boy goes through the same thing."

          Drusilla took a seat on the counter next to him, keeping her right arm across his shoulders. "And it's about more than sex, isn't it? It's about growing up, and then being considered a grown-up. About being a human among the undead. About being a warrior. About keeping your true self in hiding from everyone at your school." He didn't answer, but he gripped her as tightly as he could, with a strength that would do her damage if she were alive.

"Has there been no one you could talk about with this?"

          Connor slowly shook his head. "It's not the kind of thing I can discuss with my friends," he said. "They don't have a 'family' like I do. How am I supposed to tell 'em that a 'cousin' took a stake for me and died so that I wouldn't be kidnapped by a demon? Or that Baby looks better to me since she got turned, and that makes me wonder if I have a thing for undead girls? It's a whole different world."

          "And no girlfriend with whom you could . . . settle these feelings of yours?" Dru said through a smile.

          Connor chuckled at that. "Palmerston Academy does its best to keep us away from girls," he said. "But yeah, I see plenty of girls at clubs and malls. And can you imagine what'd happen when I bring one over here? She could get stepped on by some random demon charging through the lobby."

          "But, honey," Dru said. "You don't have to bring a girl here. Isn't there someone you would like to just . . . sleep with?"

          Connor was startled. "But I couldn't! Spike's told me again and again that I have to wait for true love." He paused, trying to make himself understood. "It's like this, Dru: I have to lie to everybody all the time, everybody I know in the daylight world. So it's almost like . . . they're not as REAL to me as my family members, 'cause I can be myself with you guys. When I get a girlfriend, I want her to know ME, not the mask I wear, and that pretty much rules out the normal girls I meet. If I had a girlfriend who only knew that fake side of me, I couldn't care for her much. And I'd REALLY hate myself if I slept with some girl I didn't care about!"

          Drusilla barked out laughter and playfully slapped at his arm. "Ohhhhh. You're such a good little boy, I wonder how you wound up in our family."

          Connor put his head down once more. "I'm not so good," he said. "You can hear that in my head, can't you? And I can barely think straight with all this sex going on around me."

          "I don't hear sex," Drusilla said.

          "What?! But I can hear it even down here!"  
          "What I hear," Dru said, "is love. Men and women, the living and the undead: they're all drowning in feeling, Connor. I've known my share of sex without love, and what you see among your family isn't it. It may not be true love in all cases. And not many love each other like I do my sweet Wesley, or like he loves me. But this hotel is full of true caring for each other, my lovely boy. And that is all you have to wait for. Even if you have to bring in a girl from outside . . . she'll be greeted with love if you care for her."

          Connor looked at her silently for a minute before hugging Dru tightly, and she enthusiastically responded. It had been so very long since he'd allowed her close enough to hug him. He whispered to her, "I've missed you, Auntie Dru. You're the only one who never talks down to me."

          The vampiress chuckled. "And I never will." She pulled back and brushed the hair out of his face, looking fondly into his eyes. "Everything you're facing is what it means to grow up. I can't give you any great answer that will sum it all up for you. You won't find all the answers yourself. Now comes the time in your life when the general rules about life don't apply anymore: everything becomes specific. You become an individual, and you may find no answer among any of your family."

          "Oh, thanks. I wasn't apprehensive before, but now . . ."

          "Ha-ha! Trust me, you'll make a better man than you did a boy. And no one will call you Steven."

          Connor looked at her from the corner of his eye. Huh? Steven? He felt a wave of feeling overcome him, a pleasant disorientation he hadn't known he'd missed, a reminder that said: oh yeah, this is what it's like to talk to Drusilla. He chuckled and shook his head, happy to be in her presence once more.

Drusilla looked sideways at him as well, clearly wanting to say something but not sure if she should. So she came out with it: "You know, Connor, your family isn't the only group to live in the nighttime world."

          "Yeah, I know. And if a place like Caritas was still around, considering the stories you guys tell about it, I'd go. But I'm too human for the demon clubs around here. And at the human clubs . . ."

          "You're hiding."

          "Which is what I do twenty-four-seven, since I live at school," Connor said. "I feel like Clark Kent, like I have to be some dork who never gets the girl so I can save the world."

          Drusilla jumped off the countertop and stood, looking Connor in the eye. "You can go to a demon club if I escort you," she said. "No one would question your presence if I'm there."

          Connor blinked, half-smiling for a moment. Then he frowned again. "My dad would never allow that."

          "All the more reason not to ask him."

          Connor smirked at her. "Did I mention that you're my favorite aunt?"

          "I'm just glad that you are talking to me again."

          The young man blanched. "Yeah. Uh, I'm sorry, Auntie Dru. I should've trusted you more."

          "You've been so alone in this," she answered. "I'm sorry that I didn't force you to tell me how you were doing." Her head tipped to the side in a way very like Spike. "Hmm. I just remembered a nice Wiccan group I could introduce you to. They have some 14-year-old members. And you wouldn't have to hide your strength among them."

          Connor shrugged, and hopped off the countertop himself. "Whatever. Whoever they are, I'm sure you have my best interests at heart, right?"

          "Always, my lovely boy. Always."

**TO BE CONCLUDED IN Age Fifteen**


	3. Age Fifteen

  
**AUNTIE DRU**   
**by Fojiao2 (Kevin A. Poston) and Ebony Silvers**   
A tale about Connor from the Babyverse   
DISCLAIMER: None of the characters used here belong to me; most of them belong to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy; Baby, The Pride, Jean Claude, René, and Claudia belong to Ebony Silvers. I profit from none of this.   
RATING: R   
SPOILERS: "Highway to Hell," "Slept So Long Without You," "Bed of Roses."   
DEDICATION: For Ebony, who encouraged me in the writing of this.   


**AGE FIFTEEN – September 13, 2017**   
The whispers Connor heard at night were not a nightmare, but came from memory. That made them all the more terrifying. They always began with the same scarily familiar voice, cast into the subtlest of Irish lilts. 

**[OUTSIDE]**   
ANGELUS: Pathetic, really. A cock is not a hot dog, Cordy; you have to show it a little care, some energy and flair. Not that weak little tongue-twirl thing. Jeez, didn't you learn ANYTHING on that cheerleader squad? Harmony told me some of the things that Coach Andrews got up to with you girls. 

BABY: Aw, that's sick. Next you're gonna say that Snyder was— yeeurch, I don't even wanna think about it. 

ANGELUS: Those Sunnydale kids couldn't've taught you a thing, my girl. You actually know how to give a blowjob—I'll bet that bastard do-gooder grandchilde of mine taught you all those lovely tricks, eh? 

BABY: All of which you probably taught him. Ooh, now there's a nice picture. Sorta gettin' me interested over here. 

**[INSIDE]**   
CORDY: I can't take much more of this. 

DRU: They want you to scream. Daddy wants us to open up. We can't let him. If Angelus gets his hands on Connor the world is over. Over! 

** [OUTSIDE]**   
ANGELUS: Interested, eh? Maybe if Cordy could HEAR a great blowjob being given it'd give her some incentive. 

BABY: Again? I've given you two this morning, Sire. You're getting greedy. 

ANGELUS: I know. It's a bastard, I am. Lucky I have a whore like you around, eh? 

** [INSIDE]**   
CORDY: Are you sure he can't get in? 

DRU: I changed the combination on the lock. 

CORDY: But Baby could do it, couldn't she? I mean, that's the sorta thing she does! 

DRU: Only if Daddy can give her a reason to. She's an empty fish now, she doesn't really care. 

CORDY: He's her sire and— and she's his consort now, too. She'll do it if he tells her to. If he thinks of it. What then? 

DRU: I'll take them. 

CORDY: Angelus is your sire and he's a hundred years older. 

DRU: It doesn't matter. He has no idea how to do thrall. I could take them all at the same time. 

CORDY: So you can do that thrall to them whenever you want? Why can't you do it through the door? 

DRU: You have power of your own, Cordelia. Why can't you use that through the door? 

** [OUTSIDE]**   
BABY: This isn't working. Maybe we shouldn't focus on Cordy. 

ANGELUS: What do you suggest? 

BABY: Come here, Wes. 

WESLEY: Yes, Sire? 

BABY: Talk to your woman. Get her to open the door. 

WESLEY: (sigh) Must I? 

ANGELUS: We wouldn't need to if your barrier spells weren't so effective. And if you didn't hide the anti-spells inside the safe-room! 

WESLEY: Drusilla had told me to do it, old man. It was that damnable prophetic talent of hers. (leaning against the door) Drusilla? Pet, why are we involved in this at all? You're risking your life for Cordelia, that hairbrained twit? Or is it the boy? I tell you now, my princess, he's already dead. If you dared to look into the future you would know this. There is no reason for you to be hurt, my dove, not when I am here for you. We'll go away together, you and me, far from these laughable battles over what's 'right.' You know that we have no loyalty to anyone besides ourselves. Come, precious, come away with me. Open the door and we'll disappear into the night. Open the door. 

** [INSIDE]**   
DRU: Oh, my Wesley, my darling lost boy. Oh, they've stolen him, they've set him adrift. Oohhhhh. I must sit down, I must. 

**[OUTSIDE]**   
BABY: It's still not working. Try again, Wes. 

WESLEY: I don't see how it will do any good. She saw me upstairs, she knows I've changed. Drusilla may be many things but she's not stupid. 

BABY: So what do we do? 

WESLEY: We could kill Angelus. 

BABY and ANGELUS: What?! 

WESLEY: It would get them to trust us. I certainly have no love for my grandsire. Just say the word, Sire, and I'll dice him up for you. 

ANGELUS: It'll take a lot more than that switchblade to kill me, boy. 

WESLEY: Well, I do have all night. 

BABY: Boys! Have you forgotten that Spike is on his way here? He doesn't need to wait for night like we do. And do any of us want to be here when he arrives? 

**[INSIDE]**   
CORDY: Oh God, Connor, baby, why won't you talk? You're not even blinking! 

DRU: Don't touch him. 

CORDY: Why not? 

DRU: That axe he holds is thirsty for blood. Whoever touches him first may feel its touch. 

CORDY: Connor would never hurt me. I'm—aagghh! 

Connor bolted up in bed, holding his scream in his throat through will alone. It was getting easier to hold it all in. He'd been doing this for nine months, after all. The whispers always started as they had in his memory, and then spiraled into nightmare at the end. They didn't decrease in their power to harm him—he just got tougher as the months went on. 

It was strange—and what in his life wasn't strange?—but he was actually grateful that the nightmares were so horrible. Because the rest of the day was easy in comparison. Nothing else he saw or heard during the day could bring those memories to life in the same way. So he was grateful to see the early morning sun shining through the Venetian blinds. He'd stay in the light and forget himself for a while, before being drawn back to it with nightfall. And he would fight to stay awake as long as possible.   
Beside his bed were the first happy images he focused on each morning: a photo of his dad with Cordy sitting in his lap and her arms around Angel's torso, both of them grinning out of the frame directly at him, it seemed. Beside it, in a larger frame, was a group photo of the entire family—the Pride and the Scourge all in the lobby of the Hyperion—made when he was 14. There was Spike and Baby in the exact center, flanked by Angel and Cordy on one side and Wes and Dru on the other. Behind Spike, Claudia was looking at her sire, René was rolling his eyes and looking skyward, and Jean Claude looked forward resolutely. This was how he wanted to think of the family, the image he wanted to keep in his head through the daylight hours. 

He knew that his father was in fact somewhere in middle America committing some vague evil, that his beloved Aunt Baby was at his side helping him, and that Uncle Wes was using magic to make sure that no one could stop them. And, oh yes, it seemed that good ol' René, who didn't have the excuse of losing a soul, had betrayed the entire family and sided with Angelus. Things had gone from blissfully perfect to this constant waking nightmare without any preparation, and now Connor was on his ninth month of living in denial. The big lie that he told himself every morning was that the family would get past this, that things would eventually return to normal when his dad got his soul back and the family was able to be one again. Deep within himself, where the memories that supplied his nightmares lurked, he knew that would never happen, but he had to get through the days somehow without crying hysterically and huddling in a corner. Drusilla was filling the quota on crying and self-torture, after all. 

At least he had the comfort of staying in Spike's home. He was in the room he normally took when he visited, but this visit had been different from all others. He'd been removed from the Palmerston Academy in mid-term, only a year short of graduation, just as he was making a name for himself there, just as he was making that bastard Li Peng pay for pushing him around. Still, when he saw the shape that Ma was in, and imagined her having to stay in L.A. by herself to keep him in that school, he didn't regret it. And the Remillard School allowed him to audit classes at Tulane University, so his education wasn't suffering. In fact, he'd made more than a few discoveries here in New Orleans that he hadn't known back home. Chief among them was the time he spent with Jean Claude, who had become the young man's hero figure since Spike had gone all somber and depressed. And another treat was waiting across town. 

He rose from bed and started toward the bathroom down the hallway. Just outside of his door one of his bodyguards sat on a chair leaning against the wall. 

Mr. Pierce tsked. "Up so soon?" he asked. "That's barely three hours." 

"It's also none of your business," Connor groused. He didn't look back as he continued down the hall and performed his morning rituals in the bathroom. The bodyguards, three of them, were his chief annoyance these days. They were thankfully not too noticeable in school, because they were professionals, but the very fact that they were necessary reminded him of how bad things really were. Pretending wasn't nearly so easy when they were around. 

He returned to his room, the bodyguard silent as he passed. He dressed quickly and slipped out, moving silently through the halls. Mr. Pierce would normally have followed him, but Connor was safe inside Spike's household—it was when he left that they went into action. He still had a few hours until he was expected at school, but they knew Connor wouldn't leave until he made one visit. 

It was just after sunup, so the building was stunningly quiet. There were a few live servants moving in the kitchen, Connor could hear that, but he was the only one moving on the second floor. He stayed just as quiet moving up to the third floor and made his way to the room at the far end of the hallway. He was a bit surprised to see Shelley exiting the door he was headed toward. She had sensed him when he first entered the hallway, and already had her finger to her lips asking him to remain quiet. 

"What's wrong?" Connor whispered to her so softly that only a vampire could hear. 

The beautiful vampiress, who looked like she could be Connor's age, shook her head sadly. "She's very bad this morning," she told him. "Up all night and still not calmed. I had to put her in restraints." The boy's face went hard—a sure sign that he was inwardly distressed but not willing to show it. The expression outlined the dark circles under his eyes even more, and Shelley reached out to cup his chin. "You look like you could do with some sleep yourself." 

Connor shook off her hand; he hated any treatment that made him seem like a child. "I can still see her, can't I?" 

"I'm not sure—she can be violent." 

For a moment, Connor considered running to Spike and waking him: his uncle would definitely give him permission to enter, and maybe even reprimand Shelley for the reason he was awakened. If he'd been facing one of his bodyguards he wouldn't hesitate—he went over their heads all the time to get his way. But Shelley was family, and though he'd learned last year that family could indeed be taken away, losing four members in the same year was just over the top. He wouldn't give her any more headaches than those she already faced. "Shelley, she's the only aunt I have left," he said, letting Baby's name remain unsaid but echoing between them. He stepped forward and put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I really appreciate how you're helping her. And I won't cause her any more distress. I just wanna see her for a few minutes." 

Shelley looked directly into his powerful, expressive eyes, one of the better things he inherited from his father. "She's my grandsire," she said. "It's no trouble." She sighed. "Besides, your attention is good for her. I'm gonna get some blood from downstairs, okay? I'll be right back." 

"Thanks," Connor said, watching her slip down the shadowed hallway. He took a deep, calming breath and opened the door. The room would have been pitch black if not for the soft blue fluorescents on the ceiling—the windows were boarded up. There was also no furniture here, as it had been broken apart time and again when the room's occupant became violent. Connor turned to his left and saw her: Drusilla was chained to the wall. Her manacles were padded at the wrists, but her arms were still drawn above her, and he was disturbed at seeing her so bound and helpless. She was dressed in a crimson slip, so that her white arms were bare, and her lithe legs drew the silk up to her knees because they were constantly moving, bare feet sliding across the bare wood floor. Her head rocked back and forth, lost in its net of thick dark brown hair. 

Connor moved to her side quickly, sweeping the hair from her face. "Dru! Can you understand me, Dru?" 

Drusilla's large, expressive eyes rolled. "Connor?" she trilled, and grinned drunkenly. "Where's Nina? Why isn't she with you?" 

Connor sighed. "Dru, I've told you: I don't know anybody named Nina. And you won't tell me who she is." 

Dru frowned. "Hmm, that's right, that's right. Not time yet, still the boy, not the man. Not the man Kevin is. The boy . . ." Her eyes wandered; but she'd not met his eyes yet, hadn't been entirely drawn from her interior world in nearly four months. She'd been lucid for the move to New Orleans, but after a few months started to drift away from the world around her. One day would see her resting quietly, singing to herself; then, without warning, she'd be experimenting with sticking her hand into sunlight, or pulling at Spike and begging him to take her back to Daddy. Finally she'd been confined to this room, and in her quieter and more sane moments Drusilla agreed with this decision. 

"The boy . . ." Drusilla crooned. "The boy and . . . the dragon!" She sat up straight and stared him in the eye. "The dragon's death will kill our boy! We have to— have to do something!" 

Connor closed his eyes and pulled Drusilla close to him, burying his face in her hair, inhaling the particular scent that was her. He had thought many things about Auntie Dru over the years, ascribed hundreds of qualities to her. But he hadn't seen her as weak, not once in his life . . . not until he saw her without Wesley, that is. Her utter collapse in the last few months showed him more about the couple than their words of love ever did. Cordy was handling it much like himself, having buried the pain and wearing a brave face. Spike seemed to have put himself on hold, teetering on the knife-edge of making a decision that would change his life forever. Drusilla alone was the vivid, screaming voice of the pain they all felt. If this was what love did to a person, Connor wasn't sure that he wanted it. 

"He has a toy," Dru whispered, voice shaking in fear. "A little doll. His favorite." 

"Willy," Connor said into her hair, still unable to open his eyes, not sure that he could do so without crying. "Willy Bloody." 

"Yes," Dru said. "Make sure you get it, too. He'll be heartbroken without it." 

"Okay," he replied, pulling away. "It's done." He opened his eyes and was glad to find that he could keep his tears at bay. 

Dru looked at him in wonder. "Are you Stephen?" she asked. "How did you get here?" 

Ah. He knew this one: Stephen was the alternate-Connor, the warpaint-wearing sociopath he remembered seeing when he was five. "No, Dru, it's me: Connor. I grew up. Remember?" 

Drusilla smiled and nodded, obviously not listening to him. Connor sighed. He looked behind him to where the key hung on the wall. "You haven't been violent," he muttered. Then he said directly to her, "Do you want me to free your hands, Auntie Dru?" 

She turned a brilliant smile on him and pulled twice on the manacles to emphasize her state. "Yes, please," she told him, her eyes begging. 

Connor nodded and retrieved the key, then reached up to free her left hand. The instant he did, faster than he'd seen anyone except his father move, her hand was around his throat and she'd shoved him to the floor. She loomed over him, one arm still tied to the wall but seemingly forgotten, her game-face roaring into Connor's surprised expression. "Where's my daughter?" she hissed. 

"I don't—" he was able to choke out, then she slammed his head onto the floor twice more. He put his hands around the wrist at his throat and could just barely budge her iron grip. 

"Where is she?" Drusilla demanded. "I send my mind out and she isn't there. She wouldn't leave Mummy here to be held with chains. So why can't I feel her with my mind? Why can't I feel— Wesley?" 

As suddenly as the rage had overtaken her, she was empty again. "Wesley-my-Wesley?" she peeped quietly as her fingers lost strength, her hand pulled back to her, curled and clutched to her breast. "Oh my sweet love, I can't even taste your ghost. You swore you'd never leave me. You swore." 

Connor scrambled away from her, gasping, but she was somewhere else, her eyes and voice lost to the sea of spacetime that always swam around her. On his feet once more, Connor approached her cautiously, but she didn't notice. He took her left hand and returned it to the manacle, all without any resistance from the limp, mumbling woman he so loved. He stroked her cheek, wishing for the thousandth time that there was something he could do to help her. Then he crossed the room and stood by the door, staring at the tableau of Drusilla chained up in the blue shadows. It seemed like hours until Shelley appeared again. 

"Was she active?" the vampiress asked. 

Connor just shook his head once, then was out the door. Even his growing control over his emotions and his memories had its limits. He walked stiffly down the hallway, but instead of taking the turn to the left kept going straight to the window. The regular exit from the house didn't appeal to him suddenly—he felt a strong need to get out as quickly as possible, in a way that only he could. He pulled the dark curtains back, allowing sunlight to flood into the hall. He opened the tall windows and stepped onto the sill, looking at the street below. The second-floor covered balconies made it impossible to see the sidewalks, much less jump down onto them, so he'd have to land in the middle of the street. Luckily, it was still too early for the Vieux Carré's morning tourist traffic. He could hear only one person on the sidewalk, and could smell the whiskey surrounding him like an aura. He jumped from the third-floor window and landed on the street quietly, lightly, already in a fighting stance. There were no cars coming, and as he'd sensed, there was only one man on the sidewalk, staring in wonder at the young man who'd seemed to appear out of nowhere. The drunk looked at the building he stood next to, recognized it as the Master's, then looked at Connor once more. He very carefully nodded at the boy and then went his way. Connor smirked and stepped onto the sidewalk, heading for the building's front. He loved that he could sometimes show off in public in New Orleans, since the locals knew about and respected the Pride. As he stepped up to the corner he saw the silver convertible that was kept for his use, and Mr. Gibson, another bodyguard, sitting behind the wheel reading a newspaper. 

Gibson noticed Connor the minute he landed. He put a hand to his comlink in his ear and said, "Pierce?" 

"Pierce here," came the reply. 

"Subject's on the street. We'll be schoolbound in seconds. Can you call Mr. James for me?" 

Pierce's yawn was long. "Sure. Did you know he only slept three hours last night?" 

"Did you know he's within hearing range of this comlink?" Gibson said. "Just make the call. Gibson out." With the newspaper still up, he could feel Connor rounding the car's hood and then taking the passenger's seat. 

"It's early," Gibson observed. "You want to stop somewhere for breakfast or go straight to school?" 

Connor shrugged. Gibson started the car and pulled away from the curb, thinking that Dru must have had one of her bad mornings. "I feel like bagels," he said. "I know just the place." 

Connor unclenched at the thought of food. "Thanks," he said. He'd enjoyed beignets, but after living in New Orleans for nine months he was a little sick of them. He'd been raised on bagels, however, and preferred them. 

They pulled into a bakery and Connor took a table while Gibson ordered some cranberry bagels, knowing they were Connor's favorites. Gibson handed him a plate with two toasted bagels and some cream cheese. Connor was halfway through one before Gibson could even bite into his single dry bagel. They ate in silence for a few minutes before Connor said, "I'm gonna take one of my lunches today." 

Gibson swallowed a thick mouthful. "One of your off-campus lunches?" 

"Yeah." 

"And I don't suppose I can convince you not to?" 

"Not likely." 

"Well, at least you warned me this time. It gets tiring chasing you—especially since I can never win." Gibson chewed a few times. "Can I offer you a ride?" 

Connor met the bodyguard's eyes for the first time in their meal. "You'd do that?" 

"I'd have to follow you anyway. It certainly beats having you duck out and hide from me." He sighed. "We really are here to help you, Connor." 

"'Help,'" Connor said. "Considering that I'm faster, stronger, and able to give you the slip whenever I wish . . . how can you 'help' me?" 

"Just by being there," Gibson answered seriously. "By being a resource you can draw on, an option that someone else will have to consider. Sure, sure, you're a better fighter now than I'll ever be, and you're still growing into your full skills . . . but experience counts for half of a success, and that's what I have. When you get out of this one-on-one attitude of yours, you'll see that there are lots of advantages to having someone back you up. And that's what we're doing here, kid—backing you up should an attack happen, not locking you into anything." 

Connor gave him an annoyed look and bit into a bagel. "The lunch'll be in broad daylight, y'know." 

Gibson sighed. "As I've said before," he droned forth, "Angelus is likely to attack personally, but Baby is smart enough to hire a wide assortment of agents to kidnap you." 

"And yet they haven't. Not once," Connor said around a mouthful of bagel. 

"They only have to be successful once," Gibson replied. He was always careful to use the pronoun "they," demonstrating that it was a trio of soulless vampires who were their problem, not just Angelus. He was under orders to never say anything specifically negative against Angelus, never to call him a murdering bastard or a scumbag crazy-ass vampire. He would have liked to vent his feelings about Angelus in private, but one never knew how good Connor's hearing was, so he kept himself and his team under tight control. He owed it to Niemczyk to act professional in every way. The AD had gotten him this job with Spike, after all, which was why he'd been reporting the goings-on in the Rue Royal household for months. So he owed something to Connor as well, and with all the paternal feeling in his soul said, "You'll find that you can't get through this life all alone. You'll have to open up, have to trust someone to watch your back eventually." 

But Connor was not listening; he kept eating, his already-dark mood darkening. "Wouldn't they be using Wes to teleport me or something?" 

"As far as we've seen, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce's magic appears to be used primarily for defensive maneuvers rather than offensive action. That would explain why he hasn't been a factor so far. We don't know if that's Angelus' plan . . . or the mage's choice. Psychics and sorcerers we've been working with are having their vision blocked. And the most powerful psychic on our side—" 

"Is chained up in a room with blue lights," Connor finished, and stood up abruptly. "Let's get to school," he said in an imperious tone he was accustomed to using with the bodyguards, and Gibson hopped up to follow him out the door. 

The transfer of custody was as humiliating as usual. Gibson stayed with the car, already nibbling on the remainders of his breakfast and once more opening the newspaper. For the hundred yards from the parking lot to the front door of the school, Connor was completely free. He walked this span as slowly as possible, looking at the trees and the birds' early morning activity, peering at windows of various empty classrooms, and looking straight up to the cloud-decked Louisiana sky. He wished that he could fly, because although his vampiric abilities made him Superkid, he still longed to be more, to have x-ray vision and flight and invulnerability. He was still lost in these dreams of escape when he came to the school's front steps. 

There stood Mr. James in his black suit, red tie immaculate, black sunglasses gleaming, blonde hair slicked back, his sharp hatchetblade of a face still and yet alert. He couldn't get away with some of the more slovenly dressing choices Gibson or Pierce could with their private detail at the boy's home; he was always in the public eye and had to dress the part of the perfect bodyguard. As Connor slammed in through the front doors, Mr. James swung in behind him, following his every move. 

Morning classes seemed specifically designed to put the average student to sleep. Trigonometry at 8:30 AM? Connor suffered through it so he could get to his Biochemistry class, where he was fascinated every minute. Then to English and an hour on Camus and the Theatre of the Absurd. Finally it was noon and he had two free hours. In the hallway he blew Mr. James a mocking kiss, then pointed to his ass, and in the next second was racing down the hallways far faster than the gangly man in black could hope to be. The bodyguard merely watched him go, though, having been apprised by Gibson of what was happening. 

He was outside before any other student, and was happy to see that Gibson had the car sitting near the entrance. Sitting shotgun, he jumped into the convertible and they sped into traffic. Connor looked over to his bodyguard and had to smile. Gibson had a real addiction to speed, and the only time he loosened up was when they were speeding around traffic. And of course, it was good practice for the day that they might be running from assassins. Lunchtime traffic in New Orleans provided plenty of chances for breakneck turns, weaving through slower cars, and lots of other challenges that Gibson saw too rarely for his tastes. 

He was grinning widely as they pulled into the lot at Buonissimo, the Italian place that Tanya favored, and Connor hopped out as soon as Gibson turned the engine off. He didn't even look back to see if the bodyguard was following. He threw open the doors, stepped into the dining area, and looked to what he considered "their" corner. And sure enough, she was there, already standing when she spotted him. Tanya Renfro: a 5'10" pretty brunette with sparkling brown eyes, dressed in her Catholic schoolgirl uniform. But he knew that underneath that beat the heart of a Wiccan, a girl who dabbled in magic and had an understanding for and appreciation of the world of demons and vampires. She was the first girl he felt he could be himself with . . . to a certain extent, at least. 

Connor quickly covered the space between them, taking her in his arms and holding her off the floor, just savoring the feel of her once more. He loved to bury his face in Tanya's hair, because she smelled better than anyone else in the world. She was the most beautiful, smartest, funniest, most insightful and most profoundly cute girl in the world to him. She was the first girl he ever loved, and it would never be this good again. 

"Good GOD I missed you," he said huskily into her ear. 

She giggled at him, appreciating the feeling of being held so tenderly in arms that could bend steel bars. "You act like we weren't on the phone for hours last night." 

"Talking is one thing," he said. "The phone can't do this." So saying, he set her down, cradled her face tenderly, and kissed her with all the gentleness, love, and caring in a young man's heart. She responded enthusiastically, and the kiss became much more heated and powerful. 

Then Gibson, standing behind Connor, cleared his throat. Having his charge standing and kissing, oblivious to anything else in the room, was dangerous. When his first attempt got no response, he tapped on Connor's shoulder. The teenagers finally broke their kiss, still looking deeply into each others' eyes. Connor was panting, but he managed to say, "I think this is the day I finally kill him." 

Tanya looked over Connor's shoulder at the muscular man in his sunglasses, doing his best to look impassive and unaffected while straightening his ginger hair, and gave her boyfriend a sly smile. "Naah," she said. "It'll be a lot more fun to make him squirm while we smooch at the table." 

"Brilliant idea." 

"Besides, I have something to tell you. C'mon, let's sit down," she said, already moving back to her seat at "their" table. He kept her hand in his. When they were seated Gibson finally settled himself at a table against the back wall, two tables away from Connor and Tanya, so that Connor and the entrance were in his line of sight at all times but he still gave the young man a little privacy. 

"I already ordered, I hope you don't mind," Tanya told him as a waiter approached their table with a platter. 

Connor couldn't take his eyes off hers and barely noticed the waiter arrive. "Whatever you say," he told her, squeezing her hand. He had to let go while the waiter placed the dishes on the table, and he saw his usual spaghetti Bolognese set before him, and Tanya's small plate of ravioli. Then there was a third place set for a plate of lasagna. He looked over to Tanya with confused eyes. 

"Uh, I invited my friend Laurie. You don't mind, do you?" 

And Laurie chose this moment to arrive from the bathroom. She was in the same uniform, obviously a classmate of Tanya's, a chunky redhead with freckles everywhere and far too much makeup. "Hey!" she said, putting a meaty hand on Connor's shoulder. "You Connor? Ooh, you're cute!" She dropped into the chair in front of her lasagna and picked up her fork. "Thanks for the lunch." 

Connor nodded blankly, looking from Laurie to Tanya. "Um, I thought it'd be just us." It looked as if Gibson was about to get up and approach, but Connor waved him off. 

"Yeah," Tanya said through a strained smile, "I know, I would've told you last night if I'd known. Laurie just wanted to come along." 

Laurie had stopped, fork in mid-motion. "Uh, is there a problem? I thought you were paying." 

Connor looked at her through half-lidded eyes. "It's cool," he said. "I have a credit card." 

Laurie smiled and tucked into her food again. "Yeah, Tanya said you were rich," she told him between mouthfuls. "I didn't figure it'd be a problem." 

Connor finally wore a small smile as he looked at her. "Really? And what else did she say?" 

Laurie waved a hand airily. "Aw, you know— how you got bodyguards 'cause your father's some hot-shot, that you live in a mansion on Rue Royal, how you take her to these fancy restaurants all the time." 

By now, Tanya had her hand over her eyes. "Laurie, you can shut up now." 

"What?! What'd I say? What, you ain't rich, you're just lying to her?" 

Tanya slammed a fist onto the table. "No, he's— he's—" She looked up to find Connor watching her with raised eyebrows, curious as to how she'd finish the sentence. "C'mere, you," she said, getting up and pulling Connor with her, until they were in a far corner of the restaurant, leaning against a wall. Gibson had gotten up to follow their progress, but he still stood far enough apart to allow them privacy. 

"Okay," Tanya started, her face inches from Connor's penetrating eyes. "So Laurie isn't the most discreet girl." 

"Neither are you, it seems," he replied. 

Her response was a sharp frown. "Don't give me that shit. Are you even going to listen to what I'm saying?" 

"Am I shouting? Am I exploding? Nope. I'm listening." 

She let out a long sigh. "Con, I know you think we have to keep everything secret, but I just can't live like that." 

"It's not just me. It's dangerous for you if you're too involved with my family." 

"You've told me that before," she said, "and it's just as vague now as it was then." 

"Because there are things happening in the family, things I can't tell you," he growled. Tanya moved back and he made an effort to calm himself. When Connor opened his eyes he looked more pleading than angry. "I introduced you to Tara and Mama Claire, didn't I?" 

That stopped Tanya short. She had to admit that Tara was one of the most wonderful people she'd ever met, the perfect example of what she wanted to be when she grew up. Tara was wise, compassionate, and had taught her more about the truth of Wicca than any book she'd ever found. "Yes," she said, "Tara's been wonderful." 

"Well, that's the limit," Connor told her. "She's on the outer fringes of the family, and if I try to let anyone else know about you . . . you could get hurt." He took her hands into his own. "It's just temporary, though, I promise. Someday I want you to meet my mom. And my Auntie Dru. And . . . I hope you'll get to meet my dad." 

Tanya leaned forward, concerned. "Is it hurting you, baby?" Connor solemnly nodded. "Then you'll know how I felt." 

Connor's mouth fell open in surprise, and Tanya continued: "I've been hurt every time you've made us hide around a corner because one of your family members was on the street. I've been hurt whenever we had to change plans because someone who knows you is at the place we planned to visit. I've been hurt every time you start to talk about your dad or Uncle Spike, and then stop yourself." 

"It's risky. I've told you!" Connor hissed. 

"Well guess what—if I'm choosing to be with you I'm choosing to take that risk." 

"Only because you don't understand the risk. If you'd seen as many people die as I have—" 

"Oh God, is this still about Joseph?! I'm not going to die on you, Con!" 

"How do you know that?" he demanded, and ran a hand gently across her cheek. "You're not somebody I can take chances with, Tanya. I love you. I'm sorry I've been a jerk about this, but don't we have a relationship here? Isn't it worth a few sacrifices?" 

"Always good with the words," Tanya mumbled, leaning into his hand. But when she met his eyes again her attitude was sharp. "Yeah, we have a relationship. And believe it or not, it doesn't belong to YOU. It's OURS, Con, and that means I get to call as many shots as you. If it's a little inconvenient to you that we go public, well guess what: it's been a little inconvenient to ME to keep us secret. I'm not like you, Con—I have friends, I have normal parents in a normal house, and the biggest secret I'm keeping from them is that I'm not quite as Catholic as they are. So you're the one who's going to have to start making sacrifices." 

She cupped his face with her hands and tried to get past his natural reticence. "You're hiding from me, Con. I've never known you when you weren't hiding, but I thought the day'd come when you'd trust me and open up a little. I'm still waiting for that day. So things have to change. I have to be able to bring friends with me when we're together, and talk about you with them. And you have to be able to hang out with us! They'd love to meet you if you just gave 'em a chance. Until you're ready for that . . . I think we should take a break." 

Connor gaped at her and clutched at her hands with his own. "But I— I'm fine with Laurie! Bring more friends, it's no problem! Tanya, you can't leave!" 

She pulled back, whimpering, "You're hurting me!" 

He looked in horror at where his hands were bruising hers, clutching at her desperately. He let her go, and she started back to the table, looking back at him with hurt eyes. 

What he wanted to say stuck in his throat. There was so much he wished he could share with her but didn't dare reveal. She understood about vampires—but how could she understand that his father was a murdering, raping monster . . . and that Connor desperately wanted him to return? Could she ever watch Spike or Jean or whomever drain a murderer and not cringe? He suddenly understood with a flash that even if Angel returned, even if Ma were herself, even if everything were as normal as it could be, he would never invite Tanya totally into his life. Could he really not trust her that much? Would he ever be able to trust any girl with the complications of his family? 

"Wait!" Connor said, stepping toward her. He produced his credit card from his pocket.   
"I was gonna pay for lunch?" 

Tanya looked with distaste at the card in his hand. "No thanks, I'll cover it." She met his pleading look and couldn't quite keep her hard attitude. "Think hard about this, Con. You have to open up to someone or it'll kill you." 

When Tanya finally took her seat beside Laurie, Gibson stepped up and put a hand on Connor's shoulder. "I think we should be going, don't you?" 

The boy looked up to the tired older man's eyes for some hint of understanding. His world had just spun upside down on him without warning and he needed some reassurance that it would right itself once more. But the bodyguard's gray gaze held no promise that anything would improve. Connor would have to find his hope from elsewhere.   
  
After school, late afternoon, and Connor was back home at Rue Royal but not in his house. The Pride owned several houses on either side of the street, from points west down to the Starry Wisdom Occult Bookstore (a place Olivia never entered out of superstitious dread). One of these buildings housed the gym and training facility that family members used to hone their superhuman skills. Connor now sat in the corner of the sparring room, silent and brooding, as he had been since lunch. If he didn't favor the lighter coloring of his mother, he'd have resembled his father to a frightening degree. He squatted in contemplation, his hands resting on the end of a sword before his face, its point stuck into the tumbling mat at his feet. In fact, it was Joseph's sword, a weapon he had claimed since the handsome vampire had sacrificed himself for Connor only a few years before. 

When Jean Claude entered the young man didn't notice, which in itself was a sign that something was wrong. But Jean didn't have to wonder what that something was: he had already gotten a full report on the day's events from Mr. Gibson. He'd known about the girlfriend for months, of course: no unmonitored phone call left the Rue Royal house, except on cell phones. And he smelled the girl all over him, too, but Connor's sex life was not his business unless it affected Spike or Roxton business dealings. At the moment he wanted only to help the boy through his current depression. 

Jean Claude approached the squatting figure quietly. "Connor?" he asked. "What are you doing here?" 

Connor looked up in surprise, as if the older man had suddenly appeared. His face brightened immediately. "Hey Jean," he said. "Sorry—I know this is your private time for training. But remember when we used to spar, when I first moved in here? I was hoping you might wanna try that." 

Jean had to smile. When Connor had first come to live at the Rue Royal house Jean had still had time to spend a few afternoons a week supervising his weapons training and even sparring with him for a few fights. They had the most wonderful conversations while fighting, giving Jean the feeling that Connor was his own son. Having only had daughters, it was something new for him, something he hadn't experienced while alive. 

Jean strode to the weapons cabinet inlaid in the wall, wanting to select just the right sword. "So I'm guessing that you have something you want to talk about?" 

Connor was now standing, but looking at his feet, the sword's tip planted between them. "Yeah," he muttered. 

Jean Claude selected a beauty of Damascus steel with a nice hand guard. He silently strode to one end of the room opposite from Connor. The young man was already in a fighting stance, the sword held forward in both hands. Forcing himself not to smile at Connor's too-serious pose, Jean stood at attention on his end of the room, his face severe behind the sword he'd raised. "What's to be our subject today?" 

"It's simple," Connor said, stepping toward the room's center. "Love: what is it good for?" 

Jean approached his opponent. "Excuse me? Are you serious?" 

The young man made a dramatic slash through the air and closed on the vampire quickly. "Deadly serious." 

Jean moved just as fast, coming around Connor's right and using a feint to spin the human around. "You're questioning why we love? It's a basic human emotion, Con." 

"What, you can't handle existential questioning anymore?" Connor asked. "Besides, that's not what I'm talking about." 

Jean moved inside Connor's range of attack and used the flat of his blade to knock against the young man's chest and shove him into the wall. "I was debating existentialism when it was still 'impossible' for vampires to have children," Jean said through a wicked grin. "You need to clarify your argument if you expect to hold your own, sonny." 

Connor's sword came up and clanged against Jean's hand-guard. Chuckling, the vampire spun away, giving Connor some latitude with his sword-swinging. "Fine," the human said grimly. "I wasn't questioning love itself—just the way it gets expressed. I mean, the way we do things in America isn't the only way to do it! What about arranged marriages? What about . . . I dunno, polygamy?" 

Jean laughed out loud. And Connor took that moment to lunge forward and bring the edge of his sword sliding right past Jean's ear. The vampire jumped away and looked at Connor wild-eyed. The young man smirked behind his sword and said, "I said: deadly serious." 

Jean answered him with a smirk of his own. "All right. So you're looking for other options." 

Connor shook his head in frustration, but the two circled each other like predators and he kept his eye on his uncle's every move. "Sorta. It's more like I'm wondering if everything I've been shown is everything there is." He said a word with each step: "Husbands. Wives. Mates. Consorts. Companions. Marked Lovers. Pets. Childer. Minions. It's a system, Jean, and I don't want any of it." 

Jean decided to get something out of the way. He slipped forward, forcing Connor to move back, but not so far as the wall. Their swords clanged, but Connor remained on the defensive, continually backing up. "It's the system you grew up with," Jean said. "What's happened to make you change your mind now?" 

Connor nodded his head, as if Jean's question confirmed what he knew. "You know about Tanya, don't you?" Connor asked. Jean nodded slowly, not sure if the young man would blow up at the news. "And you know what went down today?" Again, Jean nodded. He watched as the young man slashed the air twice in frustration, still ten feet away from his opponent. 

"What confuses me," Connor said, "is that if you'd asked me yesterday, or a month ago or whenever, I'd have said that I loved her. I really thought I did. But today it occurred to me that I didn't, not really. I didn't trust her. I condescended to her. And I never would have let her know more about the family than she already did—I would've broken up with her if she'd given me any ultimatum about that." He "hmphed" to himself. "Heh, I guess I already did. She laid down an ultimatum, and I'm never going to see her again." 

"It doesn't have to be an 'either-or' situation, Con," Jean said. 

"Doesn't it?" the boy shot back. He leapt forward and struck desperately at his uncle, the force of his strike driving Jean backward. Connor's anger was making his form sloppy and jean could've easily knocked the sword from his hand, but he felt it more important to let the young man express himself. "Am I ever going to be with anyone while I'm a part of the family? And will I have to leave the family just to meet a girl I can trust?" 

"I don't know," Jean answered tightly, knocking Connor's sword away from his face and leaping to avoid a replying strike. "I can't tell you your future, Connor." 

"Yeah? Well I think about it all the time, 'cause thinking about my past doesn't do me much good these days," Connor sneered. "Here's a question for you, Uncle Jean: will I be allowed to leave if I want to? I mean, if we never catch up with Morderer, he's gonna keep coming after me, and so you can't just let me wander off, even when I'm eighteen. Already got a cell made up for me? Or will you chain me to the wall right next to Dru?" 

Jean Claude surged forward and slipped past Connor's flailing strike. With one blow he knocked the sword out of Connor's hand and stood eye-to-eye with the tall young man. "We'd never do that," he growled, the temptation to slip into game face strong in him.   
"You know us; if the family's insensitive at times, we're never cruel." 

The teenager's anger flared in his eyes, but against the yellow fire in Jean's eyes he couldn't stand. He ducked his head and lowered his voice. "I know you wouldn't do that, Jean. But I think about all these things. I imagine all kinds of futures for myself. But when I think of them, I always see myself as alone. Always." 

The vampire stepped away from the young man and walked to the other side of the sparring room, lost in thought, his anger flown away as it often was when he got Connor to start being honest with him. Without turning his back to the defeated human, he said, "Pick up your sword." 

Dispiritedly, Connor stepped over to where his sword lay on the training mats and picked it up. The instant he was standing once again, Jean Claude spun around and shouted, "En garde!" He rushed toward the shocked, unprepared teenager and leveled a flurry of blows on him that had Connor almost running backwards, defending all the way, the sound of their clanging swords deafening. When he reached the edge of the training mats, however, Connor made himself spin around and leap over Jean's head. The vampire stood with a small smile and watched the boy fly over him. 

Connor landed in a fighting stance, sword up and ready, his face a mask of determination as he stared furiously at Jean. The older man smirked and said, "So. Are you ready?" 

Connor nodded once. "Ready," he replied. 

"Good." Jean strode forward purposefully, and as he closed on Connor he raised his sword . . . and swiftly threw it to his right so that it stuck into the wall. Weaponless, but with a look as determined as Connor's, he faced the young man down. 

"I didn't really know love when I was alive," he told his opponent. "Not the love you're talking about. I thought I did, sure. I had a wife and I cared for her. And I loved my daughters as surely and strongly as any father loved his children. But I had never had love capture me and take me where I never expected. I was too rational for that. I wasn't lucky enough to know it until I entered this undead existence. 

"Here, with this unbeating heart, I've known as much true love as anyone could ask for. I've known the pleasure and pain of it. And I can tell you this: your reason and logic fall to the wayside when it comes to love. The true feelings, they'll overwhelm you and lead you where reason would never dare to tread." 

"Is that how it is with you and René?" Connor asked. At Jean Claude's dour look, he rolled his eyes and said, "C'mon, Uncle Jean, I'm young but I'm not blind." 

Still looking seriously at his young charge, Jean said, "All right then. Yes, I love René, and it's been Hell living here and knowing that he's out there with Angelus. But I wouldn't have changed a thing, Con—that's what you need to learn. You should already know that you can't be loved unless you can learn to love someone. Well, that can be risky . . . as risky as walking into a swordfight without a sword. But it has to be done. It's as true if you're looking for a mate . . . or if you have a child who you love dearly. It's the heart of caring that unites us all in love." 

Connor slowly lowered the flat of his blade to Jean's shoulder. "And if you get cut?" 

Jean Claude brought his left hand up and closed it around the blade. "That comes with the territory." His fist tightened, and with a quick yank he pulled the sword out of Connor's hand. "But experience helps you win in the end." 

Connor looked seriously into his dear uncle's eyes. "I don't know if I can do that, Jean." 

Jean had tossed the sword aside and now stepped forward to put his right hand on his young charge's shoulder. "You're not even sixteen, Con, even if that's just a few months away. You have time. There's no need to rush these things. And it's not like any member of this family to just quit before you've even started, is it?" 

Connor shrugged. "So what now?" 

"Now?" Jean Claude looked around the sparring room. "You get to pull that sword out of the wall. Then you get to clean and polish both the swords we used. And I'm going to bind this hand before I bleed all over the mats. Then, I guess we can go have dinner." 

"Sounds cool," Connor said, already rushing to do his uncle's bidding. 

By the time they were done it was dark, and the two swordsmen crossed Royal Street back to the main house. Just as they reached the sidewalk to the other side, Jean stopped abruptly. 

"Uncle Jean? What—?" 

"Shh!" Jean shushed him. He canted his head to the side, obviously listening for something. Connor tried to listen, too, but sensed nothing more than the increasing noise from traffic and people that came every evening. Finally, Jean shook his head, as if to clear away clinging thoughts. He put a hand on Connor's shoulder. "Ah, it's nothing. I thought for a moment that I heard René's Firebird." 

Connor snorted. "Now, that's impossible." 

"I know, I know. But didn't you just learn that love works outside of reason?" 

"It might take time to sink in." 

The two were smiling and chuckling as they entered La Maison du Rouge s'Elevé. They saw Spike in his parlor, staring into space, and their mood turned serious. They both hated seeing the Master brought so low. 

Connor was one step up on the stairs, and Jean Claude was angled toward entering the parlor, when they both heard the sound of running footsteps approaching the front door. They turned to look at the door, and so saw René Beaumont kick it open, carrying a bound-and-gagged Wesley with him. He looked exactly the same: coal-black hair, teal eyes, frowning countenance, his shirt torn open to reveal his chest, and too-tight jeans topping silver-tipped cowboy boots. His eyes swept over his brother and the young human, and though they stopped on Jean, René was clearly moving directly toward Spike's parlor. He wasn't stopping to greet anyone, to apologize or even acknowledge his older brother. He shoved Wesley toward Jean and said, "Hold him and don't take that gag off. He'll turn you into a frog or something if you do." He then continued into the parlor, directly toward Spike, throwing himself down at Spike's feet with neck bared, showing complete submission to the Master. 

_René's back_, Connor thought excitedly. _But he won't be here for long. More importantly: Wesley's back! I have to tell Dru_. Casting out all thoughts of René, he rushed up to the third floor. 

In the minute it took him to get up the stairs there were minions stirring throughout the house, pushing past him to get downstairs and witness what was going on between René and Spike. To see one of Spike's first four childer dusted in a ceremony detailing his betrayal: it had to be one of the most exciting things they could ever witness, since most of them had not been there for Philip's execution. Connor had only one goal, though, and earned more than a few growls from minions he shoved aside. But finally he was knocking on Dru's door and Shelley opened it, looking surprised. "What?" she demanded. 

"I need Dru!" 

"Not now. She's agitated." 

"For good reason. Wesley's here!" 

Shelley's mouth dropped open. "He's back?" 

"Trussed up in the parlor, but yeah, he's here. We've got to get Dru down there and let her see him." 

The vampiress looked back into the room, then at Connor, indecision clear in her eyes. "Are you sure? Does he have his soul? Will Dru be okay around him?" 

"I don't know," Connor honestly replied. "I just know that they belong together! We've got to get her downstairs." As Shelley continued to dither, Connor pushed past her into the room of blue lights. 

Dru was chained as she'd been that morning, her head dropped forward and her hair draped over her chest, hiding her face. She moaned, and her head moved back and forth, but her arms didn't strain against the manacles. Connor headed toward the spot on the wall that held the keys—but they weren't there! He spun around and saw Shelley walking toward Drusilla with the keys in her hand. She took the cuff on Dru's right hand and unlocked it, looking at Connor as she did, silently telling him that he would have to face the consequences. But Dru's arm fell limply into her lap. Shelley stepped over her and unlocked the other cuff, and Dru's other hand dropped from the wall loosely. 

Connor stepped over to his aunt, lifting her head up, looking into her closed eyes. "Dru?" he said. "Are you there? Are you okay?" He put an arm around her and lifted her onto her feet, but she was dead weight. 

"Grandma Dru?" Shelley asked in her little-girl voice. 

Drusilla jerked her head free from Connor's hands and balanced herself against the wall, her hair once more covering her face. She moaned and straightened, finding her footing and stepping forward. She put out a hand to Shelley's shoulder to hold herself up. The young vampiress hadn't expected to see Dru so weak, and looked with concern to Connor, who was also looking worriedly at Dru. 

"Dru?" he asked. "You okay?" 

Drusilla nodded, then whipped her head up, showing that she was in full game-face. Her hand on Shelley's shoulder tightened. The other one came up in a fist that slammed into Shelley's face, throwing her across the room. Before Shelley's body landed Drusilla had leaped onto her, slamming them both down and knocking Shelley's head against the floor over and over. It took Connor a few seconds to get over his shock, but then he was on Drusilla's back, pulling her off the unconscious Shelley.   
But he was just as easily tossed around by the powerful old vampire. Drusilla slammed him against the wall, yellow eyes glaring, one cruel hand wrapped around his throat. "You're keeping me from my Wesley," she hissed. 

"No!" Connor choked out. "I'm here to bring you to him!" 

"Liar!" she shrieked. "Wesley-my-Wesley is gone! Gone gone gone, lost and bone-white, far away as the moon!" She tossed him across the room, slamming him into the opposite wall. "Who ARE you? Where is Wesley?" 

Connor levered himself into a sitting position. "I'm Connor. And Wesley is HERE, Dru. He's just downstairs." 

She squinted at him. "No. I can't recognize you. My Connor is a boy. And my Wesley . . ." She teared up suddenly—Connor had never seen a vampire in game-face cry before. Drusilla turned and stepped over Shelley's unconscious form. Connor rose suddenly, because Dru was heading toward the open door. She stopped at the entrance, though, and gripped the doorframe. Connor slowly approached her from behind, just in time to see her fingers dig into the frame and pull a strip of wood free from it. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around, stopping her hand as it brought the impromptu stake to her chest. He had to hold her wrist with both hands to keep her from slamming the stake home in her heart. 

"Dru! NO!" he shouted, panicked now that he wouldn't be able to stop her. 

"Why not?" she asked, her face now turned to its smooth and lovely human mask. "I'll never see my Wesley again." 

"He's just downstairs!" Connor insisted. "Reach out with your mind, you'll see it's true." 

"Too tired. Haven't slept in days," Drusilla moaned. 

Connor gritted his teeth and tugged, still unable to draw her hand away from her chest. "You don't feel tired to me," he grunted. 

She smirked at that. "Alright. Tell me why. Why should I bother? Why shouldn't I jump from this ledge of pain? Why shouldn't I give up?" 

Drusilla's entrancing blue eyes pierced his, and Connor found himself powerless to turn away from her gaze. He could tell nothing but the truth, from everything he'd learned that day. 

"Because . . . because your love isn't real if you're not willing to fight for it! Keep going, no matter how risky it is! It doesn't matter what experience tells you, or what you see around you, or any of it. You have to believe in love itself, 'cause without that . . . it's all empty. And if you don't believe in your love for Wesley—" He let go of her wrist. "Then go ahead. Because I've never seen anyone as in love with each other as you two, and if you don't have any more faith in it than that then I don't want to see you anymore." 

Drusilla's bright eyes still held his, but her hand made no move to press the stake further toward her chest. Her other hand rose and fell onto Connor's shoulder. She smiled, her entire countenance warming. "Connor," she breathed, the word holding more than fifteen years of memory and meaning. "Can— Can you keep your hand on mine? I can focus when you're touching me, baby boy." 

Tears welled up in Connor's eyes at the look of full recognition she wore, a look he hadn't seen in months. He removed the stake from Dru's hand and took her palm in his own. "Of course, Auntie Dru." 

She continued to smile indulgently, nodding her head. "Wesley is downstairs, you say?" 

"Yeah. He's tied up, because I don't think he has his soul. But he's here, Auntie." 

Dru's eyes took on a faraway look. "Yes. I see him. But the stairs are choked with minions. And my Spike would try to stop me." She hummed quietly, still smiling, and abruptly stepped into the hallway, pulling Connor behind her by their linked hands. 

"You know what is below us, don't you?" she asked, looking at the floor beneath her feet. Now that she was out of her room it looked wrong to Connor to see her in bare feet and her ripped, thin nightgown. But Drusilla obviously had greater worries. 

Connor followed her eyes. "The second floor?" he answered her. 

"Below that. The kitchens, my dear, which will be empty now." 

"They're gonna be kinda hard to get to." 

"One thing you learn after your first century of life," Drusilla said, speaking more to herself than Connor, and squatting to study the carpeted floor between her splayed toes, "is that undead flesh can often be stronger than wood and plaster. Especially in these cheap French colonial towns." She released Connor's hand and pulled up a part of the carpet, tearing it and exposing a section of hardwood. Then, making two fists, she slammed them into the floor between her knees. Splinters flew everywhere, some as long and jagged as knitting needles, and Connor threw himself against the wall to avoid the debris. But Drusilla hardly noticed, and slammed the floor again with all her strength. The wood creaked, the plaster crumbled with a sound like sand crashing into stone, and then there was a gaping hole to the second floor. 

Drusilla looked up to a wide-eyed Connor, and reached up to give his hand a reassuring squeeze. Then the stood straight, making herself as tall and thin as possible, and hopped through the hole. Connor looked through it and saw Dru straightening her nightie, since it seemed to have caught on a stray splinter on her way down. She looked up with a smile and waved him down. Connor took one long, careful breath and jumped through the hole as well, landing in Dru's arms. 

"Very good, my dearie-dear," she said, kissing him on the cheek and chuckling as the young man blushed. "You want to try to break the next one?" 

"Won't I get in trouble?" 

"You can always tell them that crazy old Dru did both holes." 

Connor smirked at her. "You're right," he said. He bent deeply at the waist and lifted the carpet, tearing it as Dru had done the one above. He then stood straight once more, brought his hands together into one large wrecking ball of a fist, lifted it above his head and brought it down forcefully onto the wood at his feet. The pain shot up his arms, since his living flesh was a good deal weaker than Dru's undead fists, but he'd still made a significant dent. The wood had buckled completely and the plaster beneath was gouged. So were his hands—the fingers had deep tears and were bleeding freely, skin actually hanging off in parts. Still, it wasn't the worst wound he'd had in a fight, since he'd been fighting vampires since he was twelve. He shook his hands and hissed in pain, but that was all. Dru looked the hands over and offered a tsk-tsk at how he'd gotten hurt for her. She then smiled at him and said, "Watch this."   
Drusilla put her hands on Connor's shoulder to balance herself, then lifted a large bare foot and slammed it into the exposed plaster beneath her. The flooring cracked but did not break. She stomped it forcefully three more times with her right foot and the floor opened up for them. Drusilla laughed out loud and dropped through the hole, Connor right after her. 

The kitchen staff were plugging the exit from the kitchen, all of them trying to hear the talk that was going on between Spike and René, but Drusilla didn't hesitate as she rushed toward them. She grabbed the living and the undead by their shirts or legs or necks and tossed them aside like mannequins. She then rushed into the hallway beside the stairs, heading for Wesley in the foyer. Connor followed in her wake, desperately wanting to see the happy ending that would surely accompany the couple's reunion. 

Connor was able to hear René say, "We'll have to move fast. Angelus won't stay in one place for long," then he saw Jean Claude leap to block the hallway and call out, "Papa!" 

Connor had the utmost respect for his Uncle Jean as a fighter, having tested those skills a half-hour before, but he'd never seen any member of the family go up against Drusilla in combat before. He now understood why. Jean was fast as a snake, and it was only his heightened abilities that allowed him to see the vampire move. But Drusilla was even faster—she was a blur, a white-robed, dark-haired whirlwind that latched onto Jean and threw him across the room like he was a child. Jean hit the wall with more force than had broken through the floors, and Connor didn't wonder at the fact that Jean wasn't getting up anytime soon. 

Wesley Wyndham-Pryce was wrapped in thick ropes and leaning against the front door like a forgotten mummy, his mouth still taped and his expressive eyes shooting dirty glares at everyone around him, even at Drusilla as she approached her husband. Drusilla didn't speak—she just glided toward him, caressed his face, and removed the tape over his mouth. The mage didn't look particularly grateful. 

With a blur of motion that Connor was seeing from his uncle for the first time, Spike was suddenly upon Drusilla. He had one arm around her waist to keep her off the floor, and the other around her torso to lock her arms in place. He'd spent a century learning how to hold her in place without hurting her, despite her tantrums. 

As Drusilla's childe and ex-lover pulled her away from her current lover, she began to wail. It was a sound never heard in that house by the childer or the living and undead members of the family. If Angelus had been there, or Baby, they would have recognized it immediately, though. It was the ragged, frightening sound of a soulless being in utter despair. Both Spike and René understood it as the vast, lonely howl of a beast's heart breaking, and were familiar with it. Connor couldn't bear it—he put his bloody hands over his ears and squatted against the hallway wall, whimpering. 

Spike was drawing her back and whispering into her ear, but Drusilla was not hearing it, whipping her head back and forth, straining against his arms and kicking her legs about. She filled her lungs again and again, howling with all the power and volume given to a master vampire her age. Spike had not handled her like this in some time and was finding it more difficult than he remembered. Also, his heart had just been newly awakened by finding only minutes before that it was possible to get his wife back. To be causing Dru so much distress, even though necessary, was the last thing he wanted to do. 

From his position on the floor, Connor was the only one who was watching Wesley. He saw the mage glaring when the tape had first been removed from his mouth, but as soon as Drusilla was grabbed up and began to wail, there was a sudden spark in Wesley's eye that hadn't been there before. As she flailed about in Spike's arms, emotion moved across Wes's face in a wave. Drusilla moved like a whipcord in her childe's arms, shrieking and straining to escape—and without warning, a light flashed in Wesley's eyes and his lips curled back in fury. 

"Let her go!" Wesley ordered, but no one was listening. "Release!" he ordered the ropes binding him, and they flew away to scatter on the floor around him. He got his footing, and Connor saw that a faint yellow glow was now surrounding him. He switched to game face, which always fascinated Connor, since his ridges were very small and hardly changed his face at all, and his fangs were far longer than in most vampires. With a growling vampire voice, he yelled, "Spike! Let her go!" 

Spike paid attention to Wesley for the first time, noting that his bonds were gone, that he was standing by the door in game-face, and that he was shaking with a restrained rage that was expressing itself in magical energy starting to flow around the mage without his knowledge. Wesley stood straight, with fists clenched and attitude flaming, and said, "You may be my grandfather, but I'll still kick your arse if you don't let her go this instant! Now. Let. Her. Go!" Each of his last four words were punctuated by the nimbus of energy around him flaring with power. 

Spike grinned and released his sire. Drusilla flew into Wesley's open arms, and the power around him winked out. In the silence that followed the end of Drusilla's wailing, everyone was able to hear him whisper, "Shh, my love, my precious. It's all right. I'm here. It's all right." He stroked her long dark hair as he spoke, holding her close with his other arm. She was holding Wesley as tightly as she could, nuzzling his neck and nipping at the flesh slightly, not speaking but obviously sending him a mountain of emotion through the mental link they shared. Connor watched in silent awe as Wesley's yellow eyes teared up in joyful appreciation at holding Dru once more, only the second time he'd seen a vampire cry. 

René leaned against the parlor entrance with his arms crossed, watching the couple, as did Spike and all the minions on the staircase and in the hallway. Jean Claude, still on the floor, was looking only at René. No one wanted to interrupt the silence, but finally Spike spoke up, addressing Wesley: "About time you sorted yourself out."   
Wesley looked over his beloved wife's head and grinned back at the Master, his face looking human once more. "And past time we sorted Angelus out." Connor felt a sudden lump in his throat. His father, they were talking about his father, and he had a sinking feeling about what that phrase "sorted out" meant in respect to Angelus. 

Wesley next looked over to René, who'd brought him there from Angelus' camp. "Thank you," he said simply. 

René merely shrugged in response. "You're welcome. But I didn't do it for you. I did it for Maman," he said, absently rubbing his lip where Spike's punch had cut him. 

Connor watched the arrogant, vain vampire leaning against a wall and decided that he didn't like René much at all. He noticed, of course, that the Cajun had still not said hello to Jean or even acknowledged the presence of his older brother. He used to see René as a beautiful rebel in the family, someone to look up to. But in the time he'd spent with Jean Claude he got to see what a real hero looked like, a proud and honest member of the family he could trust and model himself after. Like so much else in the last year, René had disappointed him in the end and gave him no reason why he should renew his childish hopes about the man. 

Wesley's only response to René was to nod. "I know." He turned to Spike. "René's correct, Spike. Angelus is killing Baby a bit at a time. He is under the impression that he loves her and perhaps in his way, he does, but it's a twisted,   
destructive sort of love. He intends to break her." 

Spike nodded grimly, knowing the touch of Angelus' twisted needs himself. "So give Angel back his bleeding soul right now." 

"I wish I could," Wesley replied. "Unfortunately, I have to be in the same room with him to do it." He then leaned toward Dru's ear and whispered something that no one, despite their vampire hearing, could make out. Drusilla looked into his eyes and silently acknowledged his words. 

Jean Claude's voice interrupted their moment as he stood and strode over to the couple. "So, what just happened? How come you're back all of a sudden?" 

Wesley pulled Dru close again so that she buried her face in his chest and moaned happily. He smiled down at her dark hair. "It was Dru," he said, one hand running through her dark brown locks. "Seeing her like that. So hurt, so desperate. I couldn't stand it. I was so angry that she was hurting. It gave me the strength to fight and overpower the demon part of me." He kissed the crown of her head. "When I saw Spike manhandling her like that, something just snapped." 

Spike pushed Jean aside and stepped to the couple, holding his hand out to Wesley. "I'm glad you're back," he said, taking the mage's hand in his. "I've missed you. Dru . . . she needs you more than I can even explain." 

Drusilla had looked up to Wesley, and he was lost in her flawless blue eyes for a moment before he looked up to Spike again. He gave his fellow Englishman a sympathetic look. "Baby needs you the same way." 

Spike nodded and squeezed his friend's hand, receiving an answering grip. "Then let's go get her," he said. 

The two were so concentrated on each other that Drusilla could take a moment to look away from her beautiful Wesley and cast her mind toward Connor. The young man felt her familiar, warm voice in his head: _Shelley. She's still unconscious upstairs, luv. Can you go take care of her?_

Connor nodded once and started up the stairs, not noticing that the minions were gathering on the ground floor for some ceremony where René was bowing before Spike once again. He was on the second floor when Drusilla's voice touched his mind once again: _The happy ending is always possible, Connor. You were right. You have to believe that, even when all evidence points to the contrary.___

_ I do, Auntie Dru,_ he sent back to her. _I believe_. Yet in the darkest corner of his mind, where he'd learned to hide his deepest feelings from Drusilla, he had other thoughts entirely. Yes, there had been a happy ending for Wesley and Dru . . . but it had been so close to being otherwise. And even worse heartbreak was still in the wind. What if Baby was lost to them? What if his father was finally killed by Spike and the Pride? He swore to himself with each step he took up to the third floor that he would never risk his heart the way his family did. _Never never never_. It was harsh, but he pushed it aside to get on with his duty to Shelley, his neverending responsibility to the family. The family would always be there when everything else disappointed him. And he would always be there for them.   


THE END   



End file.
